


While We're Making Other (People's) Plans

by kyaticlikestea



Series: In Sickness and in Wealth [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Comedy, God i wish that were a real tag, M/M, Married Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Mickey accidentally becomes a wedding planner, POV Mickey, Post-Season/Series 10, Wedding Planning, Weddings, mickey gets revenge on the florist, mickey milkovich against the world, this is just 20k of groomzilla mickey, what more could anyone possibly want
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-22 10:00:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22561621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyaticlikestea/pseuds/kyaticlikestea
Summary: Mickey snorts. “Fuck off, no,” he says. “I wanted to stick a shiv through my temple after planning my own fuckin' wedding. I ain’t doing it again.”Nico looks between Ian and Mickey, and Mickey squeezes Ian’s waist. Ian grins at him, and Mickey takes another swig of beer. He’s starting to feel light-headed, and he doesn’t think it’s the fault of the cheap, shitty alcohol.“They're offerin' $10,000,” says Nico.Mickey splutters beer out of his nose.“Fuck you, you waited ‘til I was taking a drink to tell me that part,” he snaps.It's not like Mickeyintendsto get roped into planning the celebrity wedding of the century, but hey, shit happens.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: In Sickness and in Wealth [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1624135
Comments: 174
Kudos: 803





	While We're Making Other (People's) Plans

**Author's Note:**

> Shameless-appropriate tw for homophobic language (no slurs), mentions of violence.

They’ve only been married for an hour and a half, and Mickey’s just about ready to kill someone. He doesn't give a fuck who it is.

It probably won’t be Ian, who’s graciously stuck by his side the entire time, occasionally replacing his beer when it gets empty and making awful jokes about the non-existent dancing skills of their guests. Currently, the two of them are standing in a corner like rejects at their own wedding reception, Ian’s arm around Mickey’s shoulders, watching Debbie and Sandy practically fuck on the dancefloor. He's pretty sure that their dance moves are illegal in several countries. Real death penalty type shit. He hopes that Franny isn't watching. No-one should have to see their mom grinding on someone.

Maybe he’ll kill Sandy, he thinks. Anything to break up the party at this point. He just wants to go home.

The song switches to some slow old tune from the '80s that he thinks he heard once on an old coffee commercial, all strings and muted drumbeats and some middle-aged dude crooning about true love, and it's awful, only half salvaged by Ian pressing a kiss to Mickey's cheek, by his temple. He takes a swig of beer to hide the fact that he’s grinning. 

“You done too, huh?” says Ian. 

“I was done an hour ago,” answers Mickey. He considers it for a moment, then allows himself to lean into Ian, rest his head on Ian’s shoulder, and sighs. “Kinda ready for it to just be us, honestly.”

“Yeah?” says Ian, lifting an eyebrow, lewdly. “What were you thinking we could do when it’s just us?”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Fuckin’ macramé, obviously.”

He shifts his weight from his left foot to his right; it feels like he’s been standing for hours, but sitting down would be admitting defeat.

“We can do macramé if you really want, but I had a couple other ideas,” says Ian, voice pitched low and suggestive.

Mickey feels a warm sort of thrill run through him, like a static shock.

He looks up at Ian, who’s smirking devilishly in a way that Mickey’s never been able to pull off.

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

Before Ian can answer, they’re interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat a few steps away. Ian flushes immediately, and Mickey sighs. So much for macramé.

Standing just in front of them, hands nervously clasped in front of him, is one of Kev’s regulars at The Alibi, a middle-aged dude called Nico who used to do runs with Iggy, but now works construction on some hotel they’re building over in Bridgeport. He’s a pretty inoffensive dude, but he’s really only here at all because they needed to make up numbers and he lent Mickey a dollar once. His eyes are wide, like he knows what he’s interrupted but didn’t figure it out in time, and he’s deeply regretting it now. As he should, Mickey thinks, glaring at him.

“Hey, Nico,” says Ian, and he extends his hand for Nico to shake, because if one of them’s going to be personable about this, it’s not going to be Mickey.

“Uh, hi,” says Nico, turning to look at Mickey. Mickey doesn’t offer his own hand, and Nico drops his, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I was just wondering if I could—uh, that is, can I ask you guys a personal question?”

Oh, fuck this, Mickey thinks. Honestly, you scream your sexual preferences on the hood of a cop car in front of the entire neighbourhood _once_ , and for the next six years it’s just a constant stream of people asking about why you’d rather have things put up your ass than put things in other people’s asses.

Everyone’s goddamn obsessed with other people’s asses.

“If it’s about dicks, no. Fuck off,” says Mickey. 

“It ain’t about that,” says Nico, flushing even redder. “Honest.”

“Makes a change,” says Mickey, because it does.

“You can ask,” says Ian, who’s apparently feeling somewhat magnanimous after the ceremony. Or perhaps it’s just the three bottles of weak beer. Mickey doesn’t know. 

“It’s just,” begins Nico, and then he falls silent again, scratching the side of his nose with one roughly bitten fingernail.

Mickey sighs, feeling somewhat less magnanimous than Ian seems to be. “Spit it out, fucknuts.” 

If he’s honest, he just wants to start the honeymoon early, skip all this family schmoozing bullshit and get straight to the married sex, but he also wants to do this day right, all the way up to the end, and so he supposes that he can deal with the blue balls for a couple more hours if he has to. 

Not that Nico’s weird bullshit is helping any.

Nico clears his throat, looks down at the floor. “Today went real smooth,” he says, which seems like a total non-sequitur to Mickey. 

“As fuckin’ butter,” agrees Ian, and he grins at Mickey slyly. 

He wonders if Ian’s thinking about the chairs. Mickey thinks that there will always, from now until the day he dies, be some part of him that’s thinking about the chairs. 

“And so I got to thinkin’,” Nico continues, still looking at the floor, “about how that came to be. Was wonderin’ who you got to plan your wedding.”

Mickey stares blankly at him. “I did.”

Ian ruffles the short, shaved hair at the back of Mickey’s neck. He doesn’t shrug him off. 

“It’s true. He was like a South Side Matthew McConaughey.” 

Mickey elbows him. “McConaughey was the groom in that film, not the planner, dipshit.”

“You were the groom, too,” Ian points out. “And of course you’ve memorised every single Matthew McConaughey role. Bet you had to watch ‘em all dozens of times, for science.”

“Haven’t memorised shit,” lies Mickey. “It’s a famous movie.”

“Are you tellin’ me you planned the whole thing?” asks Nico, fixing Mickey with a look of disbelief that frankly he doesn’t think is merited.

“Yeah, why?” he says. Nico doesn’t respond, and Mickey rolls his eyes. “Oh, so because I’m a piece of South Side trash I can’t have great fuckin’ taste?” 

“No—no, it’s not that. Jesus, Milkovich. Or, uh, whatever it is now, I guess. Milkovich. Gallagher.” Nico’s blushing furiously now, looks a little like he wishes he’d never been born, and Mickey feels the same way. He just wants to get back to talking about going home with his husband. Nico takes a deep breath. “It’s just—look, I’m gonna spit it out.”

“I fuckin’ wish you would,” Mickey bites back, tightening his hold on his beer bottle and imagining it’s Nico’s throat.

“I got a friend,” says Nico, hurriedly. “Benny.”

“Mazel tov,” says Mickey. 

“He’s getting married,” says Nico. 

“Well, tell him mazel tov too,” says Mickey.

“His wife-to-be just fired their wedding planner for getting handsy with her brother at the bridal shower.”

“Mazel tov to the brother-in-law,” says Ian, raising his bottle in a celebratory fashion, and he and Mickey clink the necks of their beer bottles together. 

Nico looks up, watching them both take a long drink of warm beer. Ian wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and Mickey slings his arm around his waist, just because. 

“So now they’re out a wedding planner with only a couple weeks to go until the big day, and I saw how great yours came together in a pretty short time, and so I was gonna ask for the number of your planner, but now I guess I don’t gotta do that,” says Nico.

“I guess not,” says Mickey, “seeing as we don’t fuckin’ have one.”

“Was wonderin’ if you might be interested, in that case. Seems you managed to pull all this shit together in record time. Might be just what Benny needs. He ain’t got too much time.”

Mickey snorts. “Fuck off, no,” he says. “I wanted to stick a shiv through my temple after planning my own fuckin’ wedding. I ain’t doing it again.”

Nico looks between Ian and Mickey, and Mickey squeezes Ian’s waist. Ian grins at him, and Mickey takes another swig of beer. He’s starting to feel light-headed, and he doesn’t think it’s the fault of the cheap, shitty alcohol.

“They're offerin' 10 grand,” says Nico.

Mickey splutters beer out of his nose.

“Fuck you, you waited ‘til I was taking a drink to tell me that part,” he snaps.

Nico shrugs, but doesn’t look too apologetic.

“How the hell is your friend Benny paying a wedding planner 10 grand?” interjects Ian. 

“He ain’t,” says Nico. Mickey takes another swig of beer and frowns, but keeps listening. “Wife is. She’s some heiress or some shit. Oil, cocaine, assholes—no fuckin’ clue what she’s heiress of, but she’s loaded. I mean, seriously loaded. Kardashian levels of cash.”

“She got the Kardashian ass?” asks Mickey.

Ian scoffs, cuffs him in the shoulder. “Like you care about her ass, Mick.”

“No shit I don’t give a fuck, asshole, I’m just tryin’ to get a mental image of this rich bitch,” Mickey retorts, cuffing him right back. 

"How'd Benny bag an heiress?” Ian asks Nico, and Nico just shrugs vacantly in response.

Mickey snorts. “What, you lookin’ for one?”

Ian eyes him appraisingly. “Nah, I think I’m good,” he says, smiling. It’s almost a sweet gesture, makes Mickey blush, go weak at the knees, all that stupid gay shit, but then Ian shoves him again. “‘Sides, got my own Kardashian ass right here,” he says, and slaps Mickey firmly on the behind. 

Mickey squawks, reflexively kicks back, catches Ian in the shin of his good leg. Ian stumbles and laughs, but doesn’t fall over, more’s the pity. Ian has a way of laughing, even at Mickey, that makes him want to laugh, too. Not at Ian; he’ll save that for the next time Ian stubs his toe getting out of bed, or accidentally uses Debbie’s fucking apple-scented shampoo and ends up smelling like a pie, or forgets how pointlessly long his legs are and trips up the stairs. No, Ian’s laugh makes Mickey want to laugh for the simple reason that it makes him feel happy. 

God, he’s so fucked for anyone else for life. Good thing he married him. They’re stuck with each other now.

He’s about to stick himself even closer to his husband by their tongues when he hears Nico clear his throat.

“You still here?” sighs Mickey, reluctantly turning away from Ian. “Shit’s gonna get nasty real soon, man. People keep handing us free booze and we just got married. You don’t wanna stick around for the next half hour. It’s not gonna be kid-friendly.”

“Just waiting on an answer, man,” says Nico, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels.

“Fuck no, how’s that for an answer?”

“Mick,” says Ian, and his tone is suddenly serious, pitched low for him alone to hear. “It’s 10 grand. Shit, we could put a deposit down on a place, get out from underneath my family’s fuckin' feet. At least think about it.”

“Easy for you to say when you’re not the poor asshole who has to fuckin’ do it,” mutters Mickey, but deep down, he knows Ian’s right. Knows that they’re not in any kind of position to turn down that sort of money, especially a legal paycheque. 

10 grand. The shit they could do with 10 grand. Yeah, Ian’s right, they could put a deposit down somewhere—although that would involve finding a bank dumb enough to loan them the rest—or they could go on an actual honeymoon. Ian’s been bitching about going to New York and doing all the lame tourist shit for the better part of a year. They could make that happen, stay in a fucking 5 star hotel, eat goddamn caviar for dinner every night, and still have a shitload left over.

Maybe they could even send some to Mandy, get her to come back home for a couple weeks. Or maybe not. She seems pretty happy picking old man pubes out of her teeth for a living, these days.

Still. 10 grand. It's more money than any person who occasionally has to dumpster-dive can turn down.

He knows what his answer has to be. Doesn’t mean he has to like it. 

Nico must see something resigned in his expression, because he lurches forward, takes Mickey’s hand in his and shakes it. He’s nearly bowled over by the force of Nico’s enthusiasm; only Ian’s steady hand on the small of his back stops him.

“I’ll give Benny your number,” says Nico. “Thanks, man. You’re gonna make his entire fucking month. Dude’s about a day away from having a fucking coronary at 32.”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Mickey, pulling his hand away and wiping it on the front of his pants. “If he’s half as annoying as you, I might give him one.”

Ian laughs, a loud, fake laugh that grates on Mickey because he knows it’s not real, and claps him between the shoulder blades. Hard. 

“Such a kidder,” says Ian, brightly. “He’s honoured to do it, Nico. Thanks for asking.”

Nico offers them both a fragile grin and a thumbs up, and then uneasily shuffles away. Mickey rubs the space between his shoulders and frowns up at Ian.

“Fuck you,” he says. “Nico _is_ annoying.”

“No argument there,” says Ian, “but he’s also your best chance at $10,000, so maybe cool it on the insults, hmm? At least until the cheque’s in the mail.” He grins. “And on the ‘fuck you’ point—reckon we can bow out of here early?”

“Thought you’d never fuckin’ ask,” says Mickey, and they do.

* * *

The phonecall comes two days later, when they’ve just returned to the Gallagher house after their stupidly brief honeymoon to a decent hotel near Bucktown. Ian would have happily paid through the nose to stay there a few extra days, Mickey knows, but truth be told, he’s never been a fan of fancy hotels. He hates being waited on hand and foot, hates the reminder that there are people who serve and there are people who expect others to serve them, and the whole concept of room service makes him nervous. Letting some fucking stranger into his bedroom on the pretence of delivering breakfast sounds like a Terry-sponsored assassination waiting to happen. No, thank you. He’d rather run to the Minimart on the corner like a sane person.

So, they spend their two nights fucking in increasingly adventurous ways on unfamiliarly luxurious sheets, and then they fuck once more in the shower for good luck, and then Mickey sucks Ian off against the door of their room, because check-out isn’t until 11, and then they pack their shit into the car and drive, only pulling over once for Ian to give Mickey a furtive handjob underneath his coat to call it even, and before they know it, they’re back at the Gallagher house. Ian insists on fucking carrying him over the threshold, because Ian has always been an asshole who’s capable of sweeping him off his feet both figuratively and literally, and Mickey loves him for it, even when he kind of hates him for it, too. He pummels at Ian’s back half-heartedly, knowing in his heart of hearts that it’s useless to protest, and Ian laughs so hard as he deposits Mickey on the couch that he gives himself a stitch. Luckily, no-one else is home, so his humiliation isn’t witnessed by anyone who could feasibly blackmail him for it.

He doesn’t feel great about being back in the neighbourhood, knowing that Terry knows exactly where he is, but he figures that they’ll sort that shit out when they have to. For now, he’s pretty content to just enjoy the fact that he’s married. Ian flops down next to him on the couch, takes off his shoes, crosses his stupid gangly legs across Mickey’s lap, and puts on an old rerun of _Say Yes To The Dress_. 

“Oh look,” says Ian mildly, when a particularly demanding bride comes on screen and starts henpecking her bridesmaids for not immediately agreeing to wear canary yellow. “It’s you.”

Mickey flips him the finger, but doesn’t have it in him to retaliate. He’s too happy with the weight of Ian’s legs across his, the silence of the house around them, reminding them that they have this. He has this. It’s his. Theirs.

Whatever.

He chances a glance over at Ian, who seems completely transfixed by the raving bitch on screen. Mickey takes in the slope of his nose, the wrinkle of his brow as he furrows it in displeasure. He’s never given much of a shit for poetry, but there are moments like this when he thinks he just might get it.

He knows he’s got it bad when he excuses himself to take a leak, then catches sight of his wedding ring as he washes his hands and has to sit down on the toilet seat for fear of actually falling over.

Because he’s married. He’s actually fucking married. For better and for worse, for richer and for poorer, all that shit. ‘Til death do they part.

Death can fuck off, he thinks. He’s fought too hard for this shit, waited too long for it. He has no intention of being parted just yet. Death can go fuck itself.

He dries off his hands on the scrubby towel hanging on the wall, and makes his way back downstairs to where Ian is. When he gets there, Ian has muted the TV, Mickey’s phone held to his ear. He hears Mickey coming downstairs and turns around, mouths _sorry_. Mickey tries to gesture that it’s fine, that Ian can answer his phone whenever he fucking wants, that he’s got nothing to hide these days. 

It’s hard to say all that with a gesture.

“Hang on,” says Ian to whoever’s at the other end of the phone. “He’s just got back. I’ll hand you over.”

He passes the phone over, and Mickey makes sure to let their fingers brush, let Ian know that he’s not pissed off. Ian’s miming something at him, a word, but Mickey can’t make it out, and he frowns.

“What’s up?” says Mickey into the phone.

“Is that Mr Milkovich?” says a woman’s voice. She sounds fancy, has the rich kind of voice that he knows comes from growing up in a world that actually listens to you.

“Uh, for the time being,” replies Mickey, and Ian grins. Mickey climbs over the back of the sofa and drops back down next to Ian, lets Ian fold his legs back over his lap. “Who’s this?”

“It’s Amber,” says the woman. “Amber Devereux. Benny gave me your number. He said you might be able to help us with our little wedding planning conundrum. I'm hoping you're our man.”

Mickey sits bolt upright. Shit. In his post-marital haze, he’d completely forgotten about Nico’s buddy and his fucking 10 grand.

How the fuck had he forgotten that?

“Shit,” he says, and Amber makes a noise of confusion. “No, not you. Um. Sorry. It’s—hang on.” He holds the phone away from his ear. “What the fuck do I say?” he hisses at Ian.

“Ask her what kind of wedding she wants!” Ian whispers back. “Wedding planner shit!”

Mickey holds the phone back up to his ear, rests his free hand atop one of Ian’s shins. 

“Sorry,” he says. “Dropped something.”

“No problem,” she says, and, to her credit, she sounds more amused than anything else. “Do you want to talk wedding planner shit now, or is this a bad time?”

Well, fuck. 

“You heard that, huh?” 

She laughs. “Yes, sorry,” she says. “It’s fine, though. Good to know that you’re human, honestly. The way Benny was talking about you, I half expected you to be some sort of bizarre robot invented solely to plan last minute weddings.”

“Benny’s been talking about me, then.”

“He’s barely stopped. Not until I agreed to consider hiring you.”

Mickey, who doesn't think he's ever actually met Benny in person, thinks that's kind of weird, actually.

“What’s he said?” he asks, tentative.

“That you planned your whole wedding in about a week, under death threats from your father and with a last minute change of venue due to an arson attack from your aforementioned murderous parent.” She pauses. “Sorry to hear that, by the way. Benny showed me pictures of the wedding. It was very impressive. Big fan of the chairs. He said you’d had to move Heaven and Earth to get half the things you wanted. I think that’s the kind of energy we need, honestly.”

She liked the chairs, Mickey thinks. Maybe working with her won’t be so bad after all. She clearly has impeccable taste. Besides, if she’s willing to pay $10,000 just for a fucking planner, she must have money coming out of her asshole. Probably wipes her ass with $50 bills after shitting out a crisp $100.

He hums consideringly. “You say you need a wedding planner," he says. "I ain't one of those, not exactly, but it's not a no. Tell me what you need.”

She sighs. He can hear the faint rustle of fabric, like she’s crossing her legs. “Everything. God. Invitations are ongoing, even though they’re late because our last idiot planner gave them the wrong font at first, but they’re dealt with. Everyone had the save-the-dates last year, of course, so they all know when it is, but the exact schedule of events is a total mystery to just about everyone. We lost the flowers when we lost the planner, because the florist was his cousin and they came as a package deal. The dress and tux, we’re using my parents’, so that’s all sorted. We don’t have any catering, no DJ for the reception, no photographer. We do have a venue, though. Small mercies.”

Jesus Christ, he thinks. He pats Ian’s shin absent-mindedly. 

“You got a budget, presumably.”

“Not as such,” she says. “I’ll pay whatever needs paying at this point. I have very deep pockets.”

“How deep we talkin’?” 

She laughs. “Mariana Trench,” she replies coyly, which honestly doesn’t mean a whole lot to him, but Ian, who’s leaning close to listen in, pulls an impressed face, so he assumes it means pretty goddamn deep.

“So I’d have free rein, pretty much. Cost ain’t an issue.”

“It’s not, no.” She sounds certain about it in the way of someone who's never had to be uncertain about money.

Mickey can't even fathom it. To be able to go to any shop you want, pick up any item, not even look at the cost. Just pay for it, and forget about it. No staying awake until the early hours fretting that you don't have enough shit in the cupboards to get you through the week. Having the heating on for more than an hour in the morning. Not having to fucking steal shit because there's no other way to get what you need at the end of the month. On his more maudlin days, he can't help but wonder what life would be like for him if he'd been born with one of those silver spoons in his mouth.

Of course, he wouldn't have met Ian if he'd been born any other way. Silver linings.

He clears his throat, trying not to let on how freaked out he is. “And the fee—”

“It'll be $10,000,” she says. “Benny said you knew.”

“Just checkin’ I had it right,” he says, swallowing hard, because hearing it in her voice has somehow made it even more real. He feels oddly nervous. “S’a lot of money.”

“Mariana Trench pockets, remember,” she says again. “And besides, if you do this for us, you’ll have more than earnt it. I'm asking quite a lot of you.”

“Better hope I earn it, then.”

She laughs, faintly. “So you’re saying yes?”

He nods, before remembering that she can’t fucking see him. “Uh, yeah,” he says. “I’m saying yeah.”

“Great!” she says brightly. “The wedding’s on January 13th, by the way, if you weren't told already. I realise it would probably help you to know that. I'll text you the other details, if you're OK for me to use this number for you?”

“Uh,” he says. “Yeah. Sure. I don't have any other number.”

“I'll be in touch, then,” she says. “I have the utmost faith in you, Mr Milkovich.”

“Mickey,” he corrects her. “Not sure Milkovich is gonna stick, honestly.”

Ian nudges him, grins. Mickey returns it. 

“Mickey it is,” she says. “I look forward to you moving Heaven and Earth for me.”

She hangs up without saying goodbye, which isn’t strictly speaking a rich person thing, he thinks, but still leaves him feeling somewhat unbalanced.

“What the fuck am I doing?” he whispers, tossing the phone onto the low table in front of them.

Ian shuffles around so that the long lines of him are pressing against Mickey's side, pushing him into the yielding warmth of the couch.

“What you’re best at,” he replies. “Shouting at people about weddings and throwing shit around until you get your way.”

Mickey hits him with a cushion for that, but in his defence, Ian deserves it.

* * *

He corners Preston in a back alley. He thinks it’s an alley he and Ian have fucked in, which isn’t saying much, because he and Ian have fucked in most alleys in Canaryville, but still. It feels cyclical, somehow. He rounds Preston behind a dumpster, away from prying eyes.

Preston’s eyes are wide, the blade of Mickey’s knife millimetres from the skin of his throat. 

“Milkovich,” he stammers. “Been a while.”

“Too long, shithead,” says Mickey. “You still owe me.”

Preston swallows, and Mickey watches the bob of his throat against the blade. “I can get you the money—”

“Save it, fucknuts,” says Mickey, and presses the knife incrementally closer, feels the fleshy give of it as it pushes against Preston’s skin, and Preston whimpers. “You said that last month.”

“Money’s tight,” Preston stutters. “You know how it is, Milkovich. The catering business ain’t what it used to be, people don’t want fancy Italian food any more. It’s all French, and I ain’t French, Milkovich. I’m barely even Italian.”

“Not jerkin’ off your pasta maker for too many events in the near future, then.”

“I wish I was," sighs Preston. "Culinary school wasn’t cheap. Feel bad not using that shit. Always wanted to be a chef, you know? I didn’t start my company to cater to thin air. Maybe I should’ve. Might get more bookings that way.”

“You’re an asshole,” says Mickey. “But you know what, you might just be the asshole I need.”

Preston stares at him, quivering, and Mickey steels himself. 

“I need something from you,” he continues. Preston’s face pales even further. “Fuck, Preston, not that.”

“You said asshole,” says Preston. “What was I supposed to think?”

Mickey has to restrain himself from pushing the knife in further. “I’m married, fuckbag,” he hisses. “You think I want your crusty, dried up old asshole? Jesus, I’d rather fist a tailpipe.”

“So what do you need from me?” asks Preston. “You want more money? I already know I owe you, Milkovich. I’ll get it to you. I will. I just need—”

“I need you and your crew to prepare a fuckin' delicious meal for 150 esteemed wedding guests, plus an elaborate buffet,” sighs Mickey. “Think you can handle it?”

Preston blinks at him. “You serious, man?”

“Yes, I’m fuckin’ serious,” says Mickey. “Why the fuck would I say it if I wasn’t serious? You think I cornered you with a knife in an alley to workshop my new fuckin’ standup routine?”

“I don’t know, man. Might be fucking with me ‘cause I owe you.”

“Well, you do this shit for me, you won’t owe me any more,” says Mickey. “Debts cleared. Free fuckin’ man.”

Preston tilts his head, considering. “This for a big event or something?”

Mickey nods, and withdraws the knife a little. Preston seems cooperative enough. 

“Some heiress bitch’s wedding,” he replies. “Got roped into helpin’ out.”

Preston frowns. “When is it?”

“January 13th,” he answers, and Preston winces. “Yeah, yeah, I fuckin’ know. But you know, you don’t have to help me. You don’t. You could walk away right now, and you could still owe me $500, and I could charge interest on that $500—10% a day, let’s say, a nice round number for your meat-brain to work with—and then, when you still haven’t repaid me that $500 plus interest in a month, I could come find you, and when I find you I could punch you in the dick so hard that you’ll get your wife pregnant when you eat her out. That sound like a better deal to you, Preston?” 

Ten minutes later, the catering is dealt with. He doesn’t even have to clean off his knife. He’ll call that a win.

* * *

Mickey has graciously agreed to let Ian take him to dinner at some burger place that’s got all the hipsters creaming their pants online. They don’t go out to eat too often, what with their finances being scarcer than Debbie's parenting skills, but Ian says he knows one of the waitstaff from his club days, can probably get them a friends and family discount, so he reckons they can stretch to it this time. They'll be eating toast for breakfast, lunch and dinner tomorrow, though.

It’s a brisk evening, cold and clear, and it’s mid-week, so their carriage on the El is mostly full of white-collar workers coming home from their soul-sucking office jobs, listening to dull-ass podcasts on their phones and staring listlessly at the grey streaks of Chicago as the train rattles through. There are no seats when they get on, so Ian shoves Mickey into the corner and hugs him from behind, braces his weight with his feet, and Mickey rolls his eyes, because he’s not _that_ short, really, he can at least reach the fucking grab handles, but whatever. It’s nice. He folds his hands over Ian’s, can’t help but smile like an idiot at the way their rings look, nestled together in their interlocking fingers. Ian catches him looking and smiles back at him, kisses the top of his head exactly the way that used to make Mickey reflexively shove him off, afraid that people would see, would know how he felt, but now makes him lean back into it. No-one even spares them a second glance.

It galls him sometimes, all the years he’s missed out on in the shadow of that fear that people would look, would do more than look. Still. He can’t claim them back now. All he can do is refuse to repeat them.

The carriage empties out by the time their stop approaches, but they don’t sit down. They're pretty good where they are.

Ian’s pulling him by the hand up the steps at their stop when Mickey’s phone rings. His phone screen informs him that it’s Miss Mariana Trench calling, because Ian knows his phone password and thinks he’s hilarious. 

“It’s wedding bitch,” says Mickey. “She wants an update. Told her I’d ring her every couple days, check in.”

Ian snorts. “It’s been one day!”

“Weddings are stressful as shit, man. She’s freaking out. She’s gonna call a lot.”

Ian rolls his eyes, but leans back against the stair railing and smiles. “Answer it then, McConaughey.”

“You know that reference still doesn’t make any fuckin’ sense, right,” Mickey gripes, but answers the call. “Hey.”

“How’s it going?” she asks, in lieu of greeting. There's a tension to her voice, words tight.

“Catering’s all sorted,” he tells her.

“For 150 people?”

“Yeah, plus a very elaborate buffet,” he confirms. “Italian. Company won some award once back when they ran a restaurant. Michelin thing. Not the tyres.”

Ian mimes _Michelin star_ , looking incredulous. Mickey has to fight the urge to poke him in the stomach. 

“Wow,” she says, after a moment. “That’s—that’s great to hear, honestly. A huge weight off. I couldn’t find anyone who’d agree to do it at such short notice. How did you do it?”

“You gotta provide a real good incentive,” he says, trying to sound knowledgeable. 

“I provided $4,000!”

“Money only goes so far,” he tells her. “Sometimes, you gotta know their weak spots.”

There’s silence at the other end of the phone. “Are we talking about my wedding or are we talking about ordering a mafia hit?”

“The secret is to treat them exactly the same,” he says.

“That’s where I’ve been going wrong, then.”

“Guess so.”

He hears her drumming her fingers against the back of her phone. It sounds weird.

“So you just have to do the photographer, the flowers—”

“I got it,” he says, acutely aware that time is passing. For some reason, he finds himself reaching out to hold Ian’s hand again. Ian takes it, and cocks his head, interested, as Mickey runs his fingers over Ian's knucklebones. “Really, I got it. Don’t sweat it.”

“OK,” she breathes. “OK. No. You’re right. You’ve already sorted one of the major things. You can do this. You _are_ doing this. I trust you. Shit. OK. Thank you.”

“No problem,” he says, even though it kind of is. “I’ll text you the number for the catering guy, all right?”

“All right.”

“I gotta go, but I’ll let you know when I’ve got the flowers.”

“OK.” He hears her take a deep breath. “Thank you, Mickey. Really. Benny said you’d pulled off the impossible, but it’s kind of a huge relief to see you actually do it. Not that I don’t trust him, or you—”

“I know,” he says. “Look, I’ll talk to you tomorrow, OK?”

“OK,” she says for the hundredth time. “Bye.”

“Bye,” he says, and hangs up before she can thank him again. He sends her a brief text with Preston’s number, deliberately misspelling Preston's surname, because he's an asshole, and then he’s done.

Ian eyes him, one eyebrow raised, smirking. “You threatened to murder him, didn’t you?” 

“I can’t believe you’d think that of me,” says Mickey around a grin, pocketing his phone and ascending the stairs, Ian following close behind. “My own fuckin’ husband.”

“So what did you say to him?” 

“Threatened to punch him in the dick, cut his fingers off, deep-fry them, mail nine of them to his various mistresses, and shove his thumb up his asshole,” Mickey replies, and shrugs. “Worked a fuckin’ treat. I think he’s making arancini for the starter.”

Ian doesn’t stop laughing for nearly five minutes, but they still make their reservation.

* * *

Lip’s house isn’t too far from the Gallagher homestead, but the walk over is still fucking freezing. Getting out of bed that morning had been a goddamn chore. Ian had hogged all the blankets, as usual, rolled himself up into a tight burrito and left Mickey grasping at the last vestiges of their sheets like a shipwreck survivor clinging to a plank of wood. The only way to get warm had been to cling to Ian like a baby koala bear, which had been entirely pleasant at the time, but the moment he tried to get out of bed, it had become a problem that could only be solved with a swift kick to Ian’s shins and then a lengthy apology blowjob.

By the time he gets to Lip’s place, his nose is so cold that it could drop off and he wouldn’t even notice. He knocks at the door, dances from foot to foot, trying not to stand still for too long to stave off the goddamn frostbite. When the door opens, he barges inside without sparing a word of greeting, still shivering. 

Lip closes the door behind him and raises an unimpressed eyebrow as Mickey walks right through into the living room. 

“Welcome to my beautiful home,” says Lip, gesturing around at the paintless walls, the floorboards that have been half ripped up. “No, really. Come right in. Make yourself at home. I’ll take your coat, make you some sweet tea, maybe suck your dick.”

“Fuck off,” says Mickey, scowling. “It’s cold out.”

“It's not too warm in here, either,” counters Lip, and Mickey notices for the first time that he’s wearing two sweaters. The outer one says Chicago Polytechnic Institute in large white lettering, and he thinks he vaguely remembers Ian telling him about Lip’s promising college career, about how it had come crumbling down around him like an old house. Like this house, if he’s honest. Maybe he could come by again once Amber’s wedding is over with, he thinks. Bring Ian along with him. Do some plastering, paint a couple walls. 

Shit. When did he get so fucking soft? He doesn't even _like_ Lip.

Lip’s still staring at him like he might have grown a second head, so Mickey gets straight to it.

“You have anything kinda prissy I could wear?”

“What the fuck?” says Lip, and frowns. “No, why are you asking me?”

“Because we’re the same kinda height. Can’t borrow anything of Ian’s, even though he has the prissiest clothes in the entire goddamn neighbourhood, because he has the arms of a shaved orangutan and the legs of fucking Slenderman,” explains Mickey. Lip frowns at him, and Mickey holds up his hands placatingly. “Hey, man, we’re a perfectly fuckin’ good height,” he says. “I ain’t here asking to borrow your clothes for any weird reason, don’t worry.”

He heads towards the stairs, spies a laundry hamper at the top. Bingo.

“Is there ever a normal reason to borrow your brother-in-law’s clothes?” asks Lip, following him.

“I have to go and play Jesus-straight to some fucking geriatric bitch in a flower shop,” says Mickey, reaching the top of the stairs. 

Lip raises an eyebrow. “You said it wasn’t a weird reason.”

“Yeah, well, she ain’t too keen on providing goods and services to the gays.” Mickey lifts up the lid of the laundry hamper and lifts out a white, long-sleeved shirt, holding it up in front of him to try and gauge its size.

“Good ol’ religious freedom,” says Lip, sarcastically. He chews on his lip for a moment, as though deciding whether or not to say something. Mickey knows he’ll say it anyway. Lip usually does. “I know it’s not the same, but, uh, Tami and I ran into some problems finding a house because of the whole unmarried parents thing. Douchebag landlords kept telling us it was against their beliefs, like they’d have to go to fucking church with us instead of just rent us a cockroach-infested dump with fifty health code violations and then never speak to us again. Fucking sucked. Felt like we were in the Handmaid’s Tale or some shit. Being judged by some fucking asshole who thought they were too good to take our money. Who had the choice not to take it. Fuckstains.” 

Mickey eyes him warily. He has no absolutely clue what to say to that. Because sure, on one level it’s kinda the same thing; Lip and Tami aren’t bad people, just a little fucked up. People judge them for it, even though them having a kid young before they got married doesn’t have any damn impact on anyone else. It sure doesn’t mean that any fucking jumped up landlord is better than them because they lucked into owning more than one house in the grand old lottery of American wealth distribution. Even Mickey can recognise that it sucks to be judged for doing something that half of America does, for giving it up before getting down the aisle. 

But there’s another part of him, somewhere deeper down and often quashed, that thinks it’s not the same thing at all. That remembers the sound of sneakers thudding against the pavement as he ran away from yet another brewing fight, a group of boys on a street corner armed with baseball bats studded with nails and makeshift knives and knuckledusters and words that hurt worse because they're _true_ , because Mickey's exactly what they say he is, and when they spit the words from their mouth, he half expects to see the ground burn up like acid. Remembers the way that fear can build and build until it’s a tangible thing, with its own metallic smell, something like blood and sweat and piss. Remembers holding a boy's eye for just a few seconds too many and feeling his heart plummet like a shot bird, because he'd given himself away again; couldn't think of any other reason he might've been caught looking, never let himself think that they were looking, too. Drawing first blood so that they wouldn't bray for his. All those nights of laying awake, staring at a growing patch of damp on the ceiling, half hoping the whole roof might cave in on him and save him the trouble of all the years ahead, all the years of being someone he knew he wasn’t supposed to be, couldn’t help but be, would rather die than be.

Sometimes, when he can't sleep and Ian is curled up like a comma next to him but the morning doesn't show any signs of coming, he thinks: _that part of me might be the only true part of me at all_. And he thinks: _I wish they’d refused to serve me because I wasn’t married, not because I wanted to be married to Ian_. And he feels pretty fucked up about it, if he’s honest. He has no idea what to say to Lip's confession.

After a few moments, Lip gestures towards the shirt that Mickey’s still holding. “And that’s Tami’s.”

Mickey frowns at it and drops it back into the hamper, grateful that the moment to respond properly has passed. “Fuck, it’s gonna be way too big, then. I swear, Ian’s the only one of you Gallaghers not to end up with someone twice his fucking height.”

Lip laughs, but there’s no malice in it. It sounds a lot like Ian’s laugh, actually, which freaks Mickey out more than he cares to admit. 

“Yeah, he definitely didn’t do that,” agrees Lip. 

Mickey rolls his eyes. “So, you got any prissy straight boy shirts to fit a regular-sized in-law or what?”

Lip looks at him, although it feels more as though he’s looking through him, and nods. “I’ll see what I can do,” he says.

* * *

It’s not that he particularly wants to get Ian involved in this bit. If he had his way, he’d do it on his own. He doesn’t have great memories of the place and he knows Ian doesn’t either, but there’s a part of him that knows he’s about to stick it to them, and that’s got to be kind of satisfying.

He just wishes he didn’t have to make a dick of himself in front of Ian quite so often. Sometimes, he feels like he spends half his life making a dick of himself in front of Ian.

Then again, he spends the other half of it getting intimately acquainted with Ian's dick, so it's not all bad.

“Why the fuck are we here, Mick?” asks Ian, folding his arms and glaring at the flower shop a few doors down. 

Mickey sighs, feeling indescribably uncomfortable in Lip’s borrowed pale blue shirt and beige interview chinos. He looks like the kind of person who reads newspaper supplements and understands interest rates and goes out for _brunch_. He fucking hates it, but if he wants to pull this off, he has to look the part, and it's a real shitty part. Ian had just about pissed himself when he saw what he was wearing, of course, but Ian always shuts up without complaint when Mickey shoves his tongue in his mouth, so the mocking hadn't lasted too long.

“Hydrangeas,” answers Mickey. “Fuckin’ Blushing Bride Hydrangeas.”

“There’s gotta be other florists that sell those,” argues Ian, arms still folded, glaring at him from beneath closely-knitted brows. 

Usually, Mickey loves the height difference between them, likes how easy it is for Ian to shove him around a bit, likes the way Ian will grab Mickey’s jaw and pull him up into a kiss rather than bend down, but being married to a gangly fuck has its downsides, too. Like how easy it also is for Ian to look down at him like a condescending motherfucker.

“Yeah,” says Mickey, mimicking Ian’s pose. “But I got beef with these fuckers. Shit ain’t done.”

“Well, I’m done with them.” Ian sniffs. “Don’t give them her money, Mick. They think they’re too good for our money, they’re definitely not good enough for hers.”

Mickey snorts. “I ain’t givin’ them a dime,” he says. “You think I wanna prop up that hateful bitch’s retirement fund? Please.”

“Then why are we _here_ , Mick?”

There’s something in Ian’s voice that gives Mickey pause. He knows what it is, too. It’s being here. It’s the fact that some ancient fucking crone gets to look them in the eye and tell them that she disagrees with the fact of their existence. It’s the time someone screamed slurs at Ian on the El because he smiled at the wrong person. It’s the fact that they spent their entire wedding night with one eye open, staring into the deep dark, wondering if they would hear the sound of petrol being poured outside their hotel room door, what sound a match makes when it meets an accelerant and roars up, eats away. It’s Terry, trying against all odds to stop his son’s wedding because he thinks it shames the family name that Mickey came out wrong. That he chose Ian.

And he’s brought Ian here, like an idiot.

He grimaces, and pats Ian on the arm. “Do you trust me?” he asks. 

Ian frowns, touches Mickey’s jaw softly. “You know I do.”

“Then follow my lead, OK?” says Mickey. “Shit’s about to get weird.” Something uncomfortable flares in Ian’s expression at that, and Mickey puts his hand over Ian’s. “Not, uh, not violent weird. Just—look, I’m gonna have to make a fuckin’ idiot of myself, but I know what I’m doing, all right? So just let me look dumb, or whatever, and it’ll be fine.”

“OK,” says Ian. Mickey watches the rise and fall of his chest, the evening of the breath between his lungs. “I trust you.”

“You better,” says Mickey, and then, because he’s only human, he grabs the back of Ian’s head and drags him down into a kiss.

They’re married now. He gets to do this shit in public if he wants to. Any time he wants. And for some reason, he’s wanted to more lately. There's something proprietary about it, he thinks. Like wearing a wedding ring.

Or maybe he just likes kissing Ian. He’s not too interested in interrogating it. He’s more interested in the surprised noise Ian makes, the pleased little hum, the way Ian’s hands come to settle on Mickey’s hips. 

He reluctantly pulls away after a few seconds, because he came here to actually get something done, after all, and Ian presses his thumb to the corner of Mickey’s mouth.

“Hey,” says Ian, and he raises an eyebrow in that way that always, despite himself, makes Mickey think of James Dean. “If it helps you get through it, I’ll fuck you in the shower later.”

“Fuck you, you’ll fuck me in the shower anyway,” says Mickey, and Ian laughs. 

“Yeah, I will,” he says. 

Mickey straightens up, grits his jaw, and thinks, very hard, about Ian’s dick. He can do this. He’s sort of a Gallagher now, after all. 

“Follow me,” he says, and Ian does.

* * *

The door tinkles a heterosexual warning when Mickey opens it and steps through. The flowers on display have changed a little since last time, but he’s fucked if he knows what any of them are. There’s a whole bunch of blue ones shaped a little like dicks, some white ones bunched into a wreath. A burst of bright pink ones bloom in the far corner, like a fancy rash. Behind the counter at the far end of the shop, a boy of about 18 looks up, and his face falls. He takes a step further back from the counter.

“Hey,” says Mickey, taking a few steps further in. He hears Ian follow. “I’m, uh, looking for some flowers for a very straight wedding. Got any you can recommend?”

“You’ve been here before,” says the boy, eyes wide, which doesn’t exactly answer his question. 

“Mick,” mumbles Ian, a warning.

Mickey turns and fixes him with a look that he hopes conveys full faith in his plan, then looks back at the boy, who looks as though he might actually be _trembling_.

“Yeah,” he says. “About that. Kinda had some things I was hoping to say to the old lady.”

“She said you threatened to carve your initials into her gums.”

So his reputation precedes him, after all. Should’ve thrown the wrinkly old bitch into the fucking Chicago River.

“Not my finest moment,” Mickey manages, after a few brief seconds. “I was hoping to, uh, apologise, actually.”

“Well, she’s not here. I’m her grandson, and I’m in charge today.” 

The boy’s voice is cautious, a tremulous undercurrent of fear running through it. Mickey can’t exactly blame him. 

“Oh,” he says. “Well, you can probably help me, anyway, if you know how to sell flowers.”

“I don’t think my grandma would like—”

“I’m a changed man,” says Mickey, and spreads his hands in what he hopes might be a benevolent, Christ-like sort of way. He counts to three. Thinks about Ian fucking him in the shower. He can do this. He grits his teeth, and says it. “Christ has changed me, thank the Lord.”

Behind him, he can hear Ian cough around a laugh. 

The boy eyes them critically. “Your knuckles still say… uh, a very ungodly word.”

Mickey shrugs. Shit. All the effort he put into making himself look like a Jesus freak, too. “‘Fraid so. Gonna get them covered up with some scripture, you know how it is. Turn the F into Faithful, K into KJV, all that jazz. I’d get ‘em removed, but y’know, lasers are expensive and all my money’s going on this great big hetero wedding that I’m just so blessed to finally be having, so.”

There’s a pregnant pause between the three of them. Mickey watches the boy watching him. He hears Ian behind him, trying hard to regulate his breathing and hold back laughter. 

“Well, congratulations on seeing the light, sir.” The boy pauses, and Mickey fights back a victorious fist-pump. “And thank you for choosing us for your blessèd day. We would be honoured to help you along your journey to righteousness.”

“I had to come here,” Mickey says. “I owe a lot to this shop. Set me on the straight and narrow, no pun intended.”

“Bless you, sir,” says the boy. “We’re grateful for any part we may have played in the strengthening of your soul.”

“I’d like to pay back the favour,” says Mickey, “and ask you to provide the flowers for the big day I’m planning.”

“If you please,” says Ian.

Mickey can hear in his voice that he’s amused.

“Is this the best man?” asks the boy, gesturing towards Ian. 

Mickey schools his face into a disappointed moue. “Nah, this guy’s just not on the right path yet. I was hoping to show him the way, you know, prove to him that it’s possible to change.” He looks Ian dead in the eye, prays through his teeth that neither of them will break down laughing. “He’s still a homosexual,” he adds, in an exaggerated stage whisper, as though imparting a grave truth. 

Ian makes a squeaking sound that Mickey knows is an aborted laugh.

The boy’s eyes widen. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” says Mickey. “I’ve tried and tried, but he won’t budge. Says that if God made him in his image, then God must be gay.”

The boy gasps and makes the sign of the cross over himself. 

Mickey copies him. “Amen,” he says, and then adds, somewhat nonsensically, “for all his sins.”

“May God be with you both,” says the boy. 

“I’m sure he will be,” says Mickey. “But just to, uh, speed up the process of God joining the party, what would you recommend?”

The boy furrows his brow. “Pardon me?”

“How can I make this guy see the light?” Mickey clarifies. “I mean, all it took for me was being chewed out by an old woman about my disgusting, sinful lifestyle, but it’s gonna take more than that for this douche— dude. For this dude.”

The boy drums his hands on the desk, and studies Ian closely. Under the weight of the boy’s glare, Mickey sees Ian blush. Man, he’s gonna owe him so much dick for putting him through this.

“I can give you a number,” says the boy eventually. “A man at my church. He’s a licensed therapist. All above the board stuff. He really has a way of taking the bad parts of your soul and shining God’s light upon them.”

“The bad parts,” says Ian. 

The boy nods sagely. “The parts filled with sinful thoughts.”

“Right,” says Ian. “The gay parts.”

The boy nods again.

“So conversion therapy, then.”

Mickey wants to take Ian’s hand, but if he wants the plan to work, he can’t. He dares to shoot Ian a glance and an apologetic smile, and hopes it’ll be enough.

“Reparative therapy,” corrects the boy, with a beatific smile. “To repair the parts of you that have shied away from God.”

“And if he does that, you’ll be happy to do the flowers for his wedding, too,” cuts in Mickey. 

“Absolutely,” says the boy. “More than happy.”

“But not otherwise,” Mickey clarifies. 

The boy shifts his weight behind the desk. “I’m not sure what you mean,” he says.

Mickey shrugs. “Just what you said,” he says. “Let’s say he wanted to marry—I don’t know, random example, top of my head—let’s say he wanted to marry me. You wouldn’t want to get involved in that wedding, huh?”

“Well, no,” says the boy. “We don’t believe in—in that.”

“In what, specifically?” interjects Ian. 

The boy rolls his eyes. “In assisting with fake marriages between two men,” he says. “Or two women, for that matter. It’s our legal right. The 2017 Religious Freedom Bill—”

“And that’s Bloom’s Florist’s official shop policy,” says Mickey. The boy narrows his eyes, and Mickey holds up his hands. “Just checkin’.”

“Yes,” acknowledges the boy. “But as I say, it’s not discrimination. Legally speaking, we’re entitled—”

“Yeah, yeah, we get the fuckin’ picture,” says Mickey, waving a hand at the kid to shut him up. The boy stares at the sudden swearword, eyes wide as saucers. 

This is the good part. When you’ve convinced someone to eat out of the palm of your hand, then you open up your hand and reveal that you’re going to be feeding them a shit sandwich. 

Choke on it, he thinks. 

“Well, thanks for the info,” he says. “Got it all on here, too.”

He takes his phone out of his pocket, stops the recording, waves the screen at the boy to show him that he’s not bluffing.

The boy’s face visibly drops. “You can’t do anything with that,” he says. “We’re not breaking the law. We have a right to refuse service if it goes against our beliefs. It’s not a crime.”

Mickey takes Ian’s hand, feels Ian rub his fingertips along the tattoos on Mickey’s knuckles. Hands that haven’t wanted to hurt for a while now. 

“No,” he says. “It ain’t a crime. But you know what, not everyone would agree with you on that.”

“The law would.”

“I ain’t talkin’ about the law. I’m talkin’ about Twitter.” He turns to Ian, looks up at his stupid, handsome face and beams. “Hey, you think you could get Gay Jesus to distribute this?”

“Yeah,” says Ian, slowly. Mickey hadn’t been entirely sure on this part, worried a little that bringing up Ian’s manic batshit crazy phase might be overstepping, but Ian doesn’t seem bothered. “They’d eat it up. That’s prime viral content right there.”

“Hey, remind me what happened to the last person that got caught preachin’ conversion therapy on Gay Jesus’ turf,” says Mickey. 

“They got blown up,” says Ian, tone matter-of-fact.

The boy looks at them, and Mickey can actually see him struggle to school his features into something less than terrified. “Is that a threat?”

“Nah,” he says. He steps closer to the desk, and the boy visibly stumbles back. Jackpot, Mickey thinks. He has the boy right where he wants him. “This is a threat. I have a list here of flowers that my good friend Amber wants at her wedding. You’re gonna give me exactly what I ask for, and you’re gonna give it to me, and I ain’t gonna pay for any of it. Because if you _don’t_ give it to me, I’m gonna leak this recording of you telling my husband that it’s Bloom’s Florist’s shop policy for you to recommend conversion therapy, because you don’t wanna serve the gays, and I’m gonna make sure that the right people hear about it, and they’re gonna pay you a visit, and they ain’t gonna buy flowers.” He grins, a toothy thing that makes the boy cower. “And hey, if that ain’t enough of an incentive, I’ll come back and carve my initials into your gums, too. Sound good?”

The boy swallows, hard. Mickey holds Ian’s hand more tightly.

“May I see the list?” the boy asks, voice timid. 

Mickey pulls it out of the pockets of Lip’s fucking awful chinos and hands it to him. 

“Gay Jesus blesses you,” says Ian from behind him, and fuck, Mickey loves him.

* * *

Ian doesn’t confront him about it until they’re halfway down the street.

When he does, he pulls Mickey back by the shoulder, laughing in confusion. “Mick, what the fuck was _that_?”

Mickey shrugs Ian’s hand off his shoulder. “What, what the fuck was what?”

“The Laurence Olivier shtick!” Ian slings his arm back around his shoulder, more jovially this time, falling into step together. “Jesus, if this whole wedding planner thing doesn’t work out, you could have a promising career on the stage.”

“Not a wedding planner,” Mickey retorts, but there’s no edge to it. “And hey, I had to act straight around Terry for fucking seventeen years, didn’t I? Not like I ain’t used to it.” He shrugs, and Ian’s hold on him tightens. “Hell, it was even kinda fun to play straight for a reason that didn’t involve my fuckin’ imminent death. Freeing, even. What’s that thing Laura always says? About when you make shit feel good that used to fucking suck?”

“Reclaiming your power,” says Ian, a little dazed. 

“Yeah,” says Mickey. “That. I reclaimed the fuck out of myself, and it’s gonna get Benny and Amber the wedding of their goddamn heterosexual dreams.”

“I love you,” says Ian. “You know that, right? Like, really love you.” 

“Yeah,” says Mickey again, and then, because he’ll never tire of saying it, he snakes his arm around Ian’s waist. “Love you too.”

“Good to know,” says Ian, but he’s smiling. “I fuckin’ hate the chinos though, Mick.”

“God, tell me about it,” says Mickey. “I actually feel gayer in these fuckin’ things.”

“Not possible,” says Ian, and Mickey rolls his eyes, but doesn’t push him away when he kisses him.

* * *

There’s two weeks to go, and Mickey’s just about handling it. Amber calls every couple days, but he can’t really blame her for that. She’s got a lot of money riding on him, even if it’s just small change to her. Besides, he doesn’t really mind. He can admit that he’s almost starting to like her. She talks straight, doesn't feed him any bullshit, and he can appreciate that. He thinks she was probably made that way through a life of validation, her parents constantly telling her how important her voice was, how she should never be afraid to speak her mind, no matter the cost, and the irony doesn't escape him that it's always the people who have the most to lose that seem least at risk of actually losing it.

Sure, she’s not exactly the kind of person he’d usually strike up a conversation with, but then neither is literally anyone else. He’s uncomfortably aware that if they’d met for the first time on the street, she would definitely have crossed the road to avoid him, but again, so would literally anyone else, so he tries not to hold that against her. 

He’s on the home stretch. Preston’s told him that he’s got the whole gang back together from his restaurateur days, that Amber’s paying them all directly and they have everything they need and then some. Mickey hung up when Preston started talking about something called branzino, because he honestly doesn’t give a shit what the rich fuckers eat at the wedding, but it sounds like it’s all going to plan. The flowers are ordered and ‘paid for’, which in this case means that the little twerp who’d preached at them has written ‘complimentary’ on the booking in shaky handwriting. Mickey kind of wishes they'd made the shithead write it in his own blood.

So, he thinks he’s earnt a bit of respite. They’re hanging out at some LGBT café place in Kenwood that Ian found on a weird Facebook group for gay people with a Forces background. Mickey had hated the idea at first, bitched about it for days after Ian first asked him to go along, and then he'd come home from meeting his parole officer to find that Ian had bribed the entire Gallagher family to get lost for the entire afternoon so that they had the whole house to themselves, and they'd made the most of it. Several times over, in fact. 

Mickey had felt pretty agreeable after that.

There’s only two people apart from them there now, the others having long gone to some stupid fucking cinema to watch a special screening of a film about moonlight or some shit. Ian’s sat next to Mickey on one side of the table, their ankles crossed together underneath it, and opposite them are Laura, who’s a lesbian firefighter and the last person he'd ever want to come up against in a bar fight, and King, who says they’re a nonbinary pacifist with extensive and incredibly secretive military training, which seems like a contradiction to Mickey, but he’s seen King hold a gun and he’s not too keen to challenge them. He’d struggled with the whole pronoun thing for a while, if he’s honest with himself—hadn’t actually known what a pronoun was, come to that—but he figures he owes it to Ian to try. To at least make an attempt to fit in with his new, freaky friends. Even if he’s a little scared of Laura.

Ian's halfway through an anecdote about Liam and some presentation he had to do at school about a family member, which Liam had, for reasons Mickey still can't elucidate, chosen to do about Mickey. He's heard this story before, knows it off by heart, can recite the whole thing from memory at this point. Ian tells it all the damn time, finds it the most endearing story in the world.

Mickey doesn't feel any kind of way about the story itself, but whenever Ian tells it, he can't help but listen. The fact that, of all his stories, this is Ian's current favourite still stirs something in him—Ian's a nerd, and Mickey is the luckiest man on Earth. Ian's just getting to the part where Liam tells his whole class about Mickey's cartel snitching when Mickey feels something vibrate in his pocket. He’s not even surprised to see his phone light up. It feels like he gets four hundred phone calls a day. This is just his life now.

“Shit, sorry, I better take this,” he says. He knows that Ian expects him to get up and take the call somewhere else, somewhere far away from interested strangers, but he doesn’t, just makes a face that Ian once told him looks like he’s sucked a lemon out of an old woman’s asshole and puts the phone to his ear. “Yeah, it’s Mickey. You need something?”

“Mr Milkovich,” says the voice at the other end of the phone. “It’s Larry from the printers. Ms Devereux gave me your number, told me to communicate with her through you.”

“Great,” he says, flatly. “What do you want?” 

“It’s bad news, I’m afraid. We’ve had a code pink on the calligrapher. I’m very sorry.” 

He pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and tries to envisage paradise.

“What the fuck is code pink?” he asks. Next to him, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ian frown.

“It’s wedding speak for ‘our calligrapher was chopping onions last night and somehow severed the tip of the index finger of her dominant hand’,” explains Larry, sounding unnervingly calm for a man talking about amputation. “She’s out of action for the next couple weeks, at least. She hadn’t finished all of your—erm, Ms Devereux’s—invitations. I’m so sorry.”

His vision of paradise clouds over, burns up behind his eyeballs. He thinks it might actually be Hell. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters. Ian’s ankle nudges against his, inquiringly, and Mickey manages to smile weakly back, hopes that it conveys that nothing is fine at all, actually, but thanks for checking.

“They reattached it,” adds Larry. 

“I don’t give one single tenth of a fuck if they chopped off your fuckin’ tiny dick, cut it into ten even tinier pieces, and replaced every single one of her fuckin’ fingers with slices of your micro-cock,” snaps Mickey. He’s vaguely aware of Laura sniggering into her milkshake across the table, but he doesn’t quite have the capacity to care. Ian shuffles closer, presses the full weight of himself against Mickey’s side, and Mickey settles his free hand onto Ian’s thigh, feels a little more grounded. “I care about the fact that I got a wedding in three weeks but no fucking invitations or place settings. That’s what I give a shit about, Larry.”

“I’m so sorry, sir,” says Larry again, sounding much less calm now. More like terrified, if Mickey had to put a word to it. “We’ll refund you the full cost, of course, and offer you a discount voucher for when you might next require our serv—” 

Mickey sees red. He wants to shove the discount voucher up Larry's asshole and papercut his spleen until he bleeds out. He feels his grip harden on Ian’s thigh without meaning to.

“Look, Larry,” he says, trying to keep his voice slow and measured. “You know how many weddings a woman gets in her life?”

“Two?” guesses Larry, after a beat.

Mickey pauses. “Yeah, you’re right. Two or three, probably,” he allows, and Ian huffs a laugh. “But you know how many weddings I can stomach planning for this particular bitch?”

Larry doesn’t answer. 

“One, Larry,” he says. “A single, solitary wedding. That’s what they’re payin’ me for, and that’s what I intend on givin’ them. Fuck, why would you even _own_ a knife when your whole livelihood is your fuckin’ hands? What the fuck?”

Larry still doesn’t answer. Ian puts his hand over Mickey’s on his thigh, and Mickey squeezes it. He focuses his line of sight on the specials board in the far corner, focuses on his heartbeat. $10 for fucking avocado toast. Millennials.

“It’s gonna take some time for me to fix your company’s fucking bullshit, but you know what, Larry, I’m gonna make time to come down and see you, face to face, just so that I can stick one hand down your throat and one hand up your ass, and I’m gonna just keep on going until I can shake my own hand. How does next Thursday work for you?”

“I—”

“Yeah, yeah, fuck off, Larry. Put the cheque in the mail. Hey, if you’re really lucky, I won’t come down there at all. I’ll just send the fuckin’ bride, and you’ll wish it was me.” He hears Larry whimper, and it makes him feel a little better, although not much. “Tell Miss Dick-hand Calligrapher to stay away from knives, unless she wants to become the world’s first female eunuch. Fuckin’ _bye_.”

He hangs up and slams the phone down on the table. Ian clears his throat. When Mickey looks up at him, he’s beaming like he’s won the lottery.

“What?” says Mickey. 

“Nothing,” says Ian around a grin, and he leans over to press a very firm kiss on Mickey’s cheek. “Love you, that’s all.”

“If me threatening to turn a guy into a human hand-warmer is what gets your dick going, you have huge fuckin’ problems,” says Mickey, and he slumps back in the booth. “Fuck,” he says. “I’m startin’ to see why they’re paying me the big bucks. This is exhausting.” 

“Can one of you explain what the hell is going on?” says Laura. “Because I have a horrible feeling that I just became a witness to a crime.”

“You will if I ever meet that fuckin’ Larry asshole,” mutters Mickey. “Just first degree murder, if he's lucky.”

“Mick’s planning some woman’s wedding for her,” offers Ian, and Laura raises her eyebrows. King doesn’t bat an eyelid. “It’s not going, uh, smoothly.”

“I had to call in an old drug debt and pretend to have found Jesus,” Mickey says. "It’s one fuckin’ thing after another.”

“Being a wedding planner always sounded kind of fun to me,” says King. “Romantic. Getting to help people celebrate their big day.”

“Not a wedding planner,” he grumbles.

King tilts their head. “It kind of sounds like maybe you’re a wedding planner, Mickey.”

“I’ve planned one wedding,” he counters. Ian looks at him, and Mickey sighs. “OK, two weddings. Still don’t make me a wedding planner.”

“Are you getting paid to do it?” asks Laura. 

“Well, yeah—”

“You’re a wedding planner,” says King, and takes another sip of their milkshake, slurping it through the straw. “Sorry to be the one to tell you.”

“What exactly happened just then?” Laura asks, leaning forward and resting her chin on her hands. “It sounded like the end of the world.”

“Amber’s gonna think so,” Mickey answers, miserably. “The person they hired before me—they must’ve found him on fuckin’ Craigslist or somethin’, because he ain’t done a single thing right so far. Just heard that the people he found to do all the invitations and shit has decided to chop her own finger off.”

“Decided?” says Laura. 

“So it’s not your fault,” says Ian, hooking his ankles more tightly around Mickey’s.

He shrugs. “My job to fix it, though.”

“What, you need a calligrapher?” asks King. 

“Apparently fuckin’ so,” he says.

King pushes their straw around their empty milkshake glass, flips a dark blue loc over their shoulder. “I mean, I could do it.”

Mickey raises an eyebrow. “Pretty sure they want a professional.”

“I am a professional,” says King, blinking like Mickey’s the biggest idiot in the room.

“Oh yeah?” He folds his arms. 

“Yeah.” King mimics his gesture, folds their arms over their stupid _My Chemical Romance_ tour t-shirt. “Don’t believe me? Fine. I’ll prove it.”

They reach for the napkin dispenser in the middle of the table and pull out a napkin, then take a pen from Laura’s handbag on the floor, and write something on the napkin.

Mickey watches them, transfixed. 

King pulls back when they’re done, pushes the napkin over to Mickey with a smug look on their face. _Mickey is a wedding planner 2k20_ , it says, in absolutely perfect calligraphic font. Mickey's not an artist, but even he can tell that it's incredible. It doesn't even look handwritten. It looks typed. In the world's fanciest lettering. 

“That’s pretty good, actually,” he says, and means it.

“And that’s just with a ballpoint,” says King. “Obviously, I’d use my actual tools for the job. Brush pens, high quality paper rather than a shitty napkin. I can do everything you need in four days, but it’ll cost you.”

“You don’t even know what I need.”

King shrugs. “I can do whatever you need, in whatever time frame, for the right price. I have rent to pay.”

“Name your price,” he says. “The budget is literally infinite. You want $3,000? Sure thing. You can fuckin’ have it.” He leans forward, meets King’s eye. They don’t seem intimidated. “I need 130 wedding invitations and 150 place cards. It’s a fuckin’ big-ass wedding.”

“$5,000,” says King. Mickey blinks. “You said to name my price.”

Mickey had expected a higher price, if he’s honest, but he’s not going to argue. He sticks out his hand, and King shakes it. 

“Deal,” he says, hoping that Amber won’t be too pissed off that he set a price without asking her first. Then again, he thinks, he’s managed to bag the flowers for free, so maybe he’s due an incredibly expensive solution.

“Have your lady send me over the list of addresses and names,” says King, standing up and extricating themself from the booth. “I don’t have any other commissions going on, so it’ll take four days if I don’t sleep for three and a half of them. I’m going to be dead on my feet, but y’know. Freelance life. I’ll deal.” They give Mickey a weird little salute thing that he doesn’t even try to replicate. “See ya. Thanks for the gig.”

“Bye,” says Ian. Laura waves, and King leaves, presumably to buy the entire city’s supply of ink. 

Mickey shakes his head, disbelieving. “Huh,” he says. “That was way easier than I expected.”

“That’s what you get for asking so nicely,” says Ian. “Lessons were learnt here today.”

“Yeah,” says Mickey. “I learnt that you apparently have a fuckin’ kink for me threatening people over the phone.”

Ian leans back in the booth and stretches his legs out, resting them on King’s vacated seat. Mickey wouldn’t even be able to reach the other booth if he tried. He’s kind of mad about it. 

“Don’t be an idiot,” says Ian. “It’s not only over the phone.”

Mickey retaliates by folding his legs over Ian’s lap and raising an eyebrow, daring him to push him off. Ian rests his hands on Mickey’s thighs, and doesn’t.

* * *

Ian’s in the shower when Amber phones again. She’s already phoned today to gush rhapsodically about King’s work so far, so Mickey’s surprised when his phone lights up with her name again. He’s kind of annoyed about it, if he’s honest; he and Ian have spent the last half hour lazily making out on the couch, because Debbie’s taken Franny to some weird kid’s sleepover and Carl’s gone out too, probably to blow something up. It’s the first evening they’ve had together, just the two of them, for a while, and they intend to make the most of it. 

He might have spent more than he’d care to admit at the pharmacy, but whatever. It’s worth it to get the good shit, even if he had wanted to die when the cashier checked the price of water-based lube.

He picks up the phone, answers it. “What's up?”

“It’s all over, Mickey,” she sobs. “Cancel everything. It’s off.”

He blinks, looks at his watch, which informs him that it’s 9 o’clock. It’s too fucking late for this shit. 

“What?” he says, articulately. 

“Melissa Vaughn,” she replies, which doesn’t mean a goddamn thing to him, so he doesn’t say anything back. “That—that _bitch_ , she always knows when I have a good thing, and then she comes in and stomps all over it in her size 6 Louboutins whenever my back is turned. She’s done it ever since we boarded together at Vivian Webb. This is just like the time I was dating Ryan Chatsworth and Melissa let him finger her prissy little vagina behind the stables. _God_ , and to think I finally thought I had something that she didn’t—”

“You’re gonna have to walk it way the fuck back,” he snaps, because it’s late, his head is pounding, he had _plans_ for Ian this evening and Debbie’s due back in just over an hour, and he needs to know what she’s talking about so that he can fix it. “I don’t know what the fuck is going on.”

Amber heaves a shuddery sigh. “My childhood nemesis has sniped The Silver Obelisk,” she says, voice trembling with tears she’s clearly holding back for his benefit. “Right from under my nose. She’s offered them twice the asking price to hire the venue for the same day as me, and they’ve cancelled me. Fucking cancelled me! _Me_!”

Well, he thinks. That’s not great.

“Uh, what exactly is twice the price?” he dares to ask.

It takes her a couple of seconds to answer. “She paid them $150,000.”

“Motherfucker,” he breathes, clenching the fist of his free hand so hard that his nails dig crescent moons into his palm.

$150,000. He and Ian could literally cash buy a house with that kind of money, and this bitch has thrown it away on one single day?

Rich people have fucked up priorities. 

“Yes,” says Amber, wetly. “It’s quite a lot of money. I almost don’t blame them for taking her up on it.”

“Can’t you just pay more?” he suggests. “Thought you said you had very deep pockets.”

“I already tried that,” she says. Of course she has, he thinks. Deep pockets doesn’t seem to cover it. “They said—and I quote!—that it was an issue of necessity. I looked her up on Facebook, of course. She’s fucking pregnant. She’s stolen my venue for a fucking _shotgun wedding_.”

Mickey, who distinctly remembers his own shotgun wedding, heaves a sigh. 

“Don’t get your panties all fucked up,” he says. “I can fix it.”

“How?” she wails.

From upstairs, he can hear Ian singing something loud and terribly off-key in the shower. Mickey’s not too hot on music, but he thinks it might be Shania Twain. God, he loves that fucker. 

“It’s really best you don’t ask,” he says, and hangs up. 

When he tells Ian his plan, Ian guffaws like a donkey, calls him a genius, and pulls him into the shower fully clothed. The water runs cold by the time they’re out.

* * *

He and Carl stand on the steps of The Silver Obelisk hotel, waiting for some shitty receptionist to respond to the buzzer and let them in. Mickey tugs on the ends of his scarf, pulling it tighter around his neck. It’s fucking _cold_. 

Carl watches him, and glowers. “Fucking tell me about it,” he says, and points to his head, which is completely bald beneath his Ninja Turtles beanie. 

Mickey shrugs. It’s not like he’s forced Carl into this. All it took was a promise to show the little asshole around Terry’s personal armoury and give him his choice of any non-projectile weapon, plus a couple thinly veiled threats to castrate him in his sleep with a spoon if he didn’t play along. Mickey has absolutely no idea how he’s going to swindle a visit to Terry’s personal armoury without inviting Terry to turn that personal armoury on his kneecaps and then his temple, but he figures he’ll make something work, pay Iggy to take the brat around or something.

“Suck it up,” he says, and Carl opens his mouth, about to respond, when the door opens at last. “Fucking _finally_ ,” mutters Mickey, and they step through, into the foyer of the hotel.

Mickey stops dead in his tracks. It’s the most opulent fucking arena of wealth that he's ever seen. Shit, he suddenly gets why it costs so much to hire this place out.

The foyer is huge; the floor plan of this room alone has to be twice the entire square footage of the Gallagher house. The floor is all veined marble, white with silvery threads, and the walls are more of the same, broken up by the occasional piece of decorative wood panelling, limned with gold. He doesn’t know shit about wood, but he bets it’s something expensive. Mahogany, probably. There are paintings, mostly of naked Greek bitches, lining the walls, surrounded by ornate gilt frames. Above them arcs the ceiling, a huge dome, from which drips a magnificent chandelier, like a suspended waterfall, little teardrop crystals dangling low. The windows of the foyer open out onto the street, which is wide and lined with trees that are clearly regularly pruned. There are tables and chairs upholstered with dark green velvet by the window, a couple of people sitting in them and talking about the stock exchange, or whatever rich people talk about. Every single person is wearing at least one item with pearls on. At the far end of the room is a vast desk, carved out of the same fancy-ass wood as the wall panelling, and there’s no fucker there. Again. 

“This place is gay as shit,” Carl grumbles.

“I fuckin’ wish,” says Mickey, but he doesn’t, not really. 

Sure, it’s impressive, but dark green velvet chairs? He might not be an interior designer, but he knows a dated colour scheme when he sees one.

They approach the reception desk, and he presses the service bell to try and goad some smarmy fucker into actually talking to them. Apparently, rich people pay a lot to be left alone. Despite himself, he suddenly feels incredibly out of place, aware that his best blue shirt has a missing button on the cuff and he found his black knitted scarf at the back of one of Mandy’s drawers when she moved out.

Fuck them, he tells himself. No-one belongs in a place like this. Places like this are designed to make people like him feel like they don’t fit. He won’t buy into it. 

To distract himself, he runs through the plan again in his head, and then realisation dawns.

“Ah shit,” he says, smacking his forehead. “What kind of cancer do you have again?”

“I don’t have cancer,” says Carl.

Mickey takes a deep breath in, closing his eyes, and exhales deeply. “I fucking _know_ you don’t have cancer, dipshit. This was _my_ idea. I mean, what kind of cancer are we saying you got? You're the one who's done this shit before, not me.”

Carl looks contemplative for a moment, chewing his lip in that way that every single Gallagher apparently does when they have to think about anything for longer than half a second, and then his face brightens. 

“Can we say I have dick cancer?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Mickey almost shouts. Noticing people nearby looking at him funny, he realises the optics of him shouting that question at a cancer kid, and he puts his face closer to Carl’s, lowers his voice to a hiss. “Of all the cancers you could have, why the fuck would you wanna tell people you got dick cancer?”

“Big dick,” says Carl, shrugging.

“Fuck off, having dick cancer doesn’t mean you got a big dick,” says Mickey. “Jesus Christ. Jesus _Christ_.”

“It implies it,” says Carl, like Mickey's the most stupid man he's ever met, “because there’s a greater chance of getting dick cancer if you have a big dick.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” says Mickey incredulously, voice growing louder despite himself. He can feel a small headache coming on, right between his eyes, and he shakes his head to try and dispel it. 

“More dick,” explains Carl. “More cancer.”

Mickey leans all his weight against the reception desk, pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s not how fuckin’ cancer works, Carl. Jesus. I swear to fucking God, no-one is more obsessed with dick size than straight people.”

“Sounds like the words of someone who’s not at risk of dick cancer,” says Carl. 

Mickey slaps his palms against the desk, headache boiling behind his eyeballs. “Everyone with a dick is at risk of dick cancer, you fucking shithead! You think cancer has a fuckin’ vendetta against people with big dicks? Think cancer’s jealous of fuckin’ male pornstars and wants to take ‘em down a peg? It doesn’t matter how big your fuckin’ dick is!” 

He stops, breath coming faster than he’d care to admit, and spots a middle-aged blonde woman sitting on one of the hideous chairs in the foyer, glaring at him. He flashes her a very brief and somewhat threatening grin, and she tears her eyes away, stares at her phone instead. When he looks back, Carl is still grinning at him. Mickey imagines punching him in the dick. 

“Yeah, sure, Carl,” he says, when he can speak without shouting at the top of his lungs. “We can say dick cancer if you really fucking want to. Not so sure they’re gonna be too impressed with your imaginary goddamn monster dick when it’s rotting off from all the cancer, though.”

Carl winces. “Good point,” he says, “very good point.” He chews his lip again, then beams. “Prostate cancer, then.”

Mickey counts to five. Five fingers, he thinks. Don’t curl them into a fist. Don’t throat punch Carl.

“Leukaemia,” he says. “You have leukaemia.”

“That’s the most boring one!” Carl protests, pouting like an 18 year old baby.

Mickey raises an eyebrow, folds his arms, fixes Carl with a glare that he’s been told could sour milk at ten paces. “Do you want me to give you a personal tour of Terry’s fuckin’ weapons room or not?” he says. 

Carl glares right back at him. Mickey doesn’t break eye contact. Seconds pass. 

“Fine,” says Carl. “Leukaemia. Terry better have fuckin’ nunchuks to spare.”

Mickey bites back a retort, knowing full well that Terry doesn’t have fucking anything to spare, and he’s trying to work out how to tell Carl to shut the fuck up when the receptionist finally appears. She’s a young woman, probably about Mickey’s age, if he had to guess, and she’s wearing pearl earrings.

He hates her already. 

“Can I help you?” she asks, nose wrinkling in a way that tells him she thinks the best way to help him might just be euthanasia. 

He pushes down the anger that bubbles in his throat, puts his hand on Carl’s shoulders in a way that he hopes looks companionable rather than threatening. 

“Hi,” he says, trying to shape his vowels into something approximating hers, hating himself a little more for doing it. “Yes. I’m here about the Devereux wedding. I heard there’d been a mix-up.”

“A mix-up.” She raises a perfectly plucked eyebrow, then looks down at the desk, shuffles some papers dismissively. “I don’t think so, sir.”

Somehow, she manages to make the word 'sir' sound exactly like 'shit-eater'.

He can feel Carl’s eyes bore into him. Do something, he thinks. Don’t let this bitch think she owns you. You’re not a fucking pearl earring.

“Yeah. A mix-up.” He folds his arms, looks her dead in the eye. She doesn’t flinch, but it’s a close thing. “At your end, actually. Someone double-booked the venue, and gave it to the highest bidder. I’m here doing you guys a favour. You should be _grateful_.”

The eyebrow goes up again. “And how is that, exactly?”

He pushes Carl forward. “Just thinkin’ of how bad it’ll look on the front page when we tell the world that Amber Devereux’s kid brother never lived to see his sister get married because the venue she hired decided that a dying kid wasn’t quite so good for their bank account as a bride who got knocked up before her wedding and paid them to take the Devereux slot,” he says. 

He nudges Carl, who removes his hat to display his bald head and looks up at the receptionist, eyes wide and brimming with tears. Shit, Mickey thinks. He underestimated Carl. He’s grudgingly impressed.

“Please, miss,” says Carl, voice higher pitched than usual. “I don’t have much time left. You don’t know what it would mean to me to watch my sister on her blessèd day. I have di—”

“He has leukaemia,” cuts in Mickey. “Terminal. No chance of a cure, all that shit. That wedding was all he had to live for.”

“And now I have nothing,” says Carl. A single tear falls from his eye. “Might as well die in the trash like a dog. My tombstone will say that I died without my last wish. If I shall have a tombstone at all.”

Don't overplay it, thinks Mickey.

The receptionist looks at Mickey, then at Carl.

Carl coughs weakly.

“I’ll get the manager,” she says. 

* * *

It doesn’t take much to get Amber’s venue back, in the end. Turns out Carl’s a bonafide fucking child star, can bring out the tears like no-one’s business when required, and Mickey’s surreptitious Google search for _worst leukaemia symptoms disgusting sad_ gives their story enough credence that the manager himself is in tears at the end of their little display.

“Had we only known,” says the manager, dabbing at the corner of his eye with a handkerchief that he’d pulled from his breast pocket, “we certainly wouldn’t have agreed to host Miss Vaughn’s wedding on account of her own tragic story.”

“Thought she got knocked up,” says Mickey. “Not that tragic.”

“Well, she had to bring her whole wedding forward,” says the manager. “It must have been very stressful for her.”

Mickey thinks of Lip and Tami, of how they struggled to find somewhere to fucking live, and of how Debbie can’t hold down a job with all the childcare demands, but says nothing. 

“So it’s all good,” he checks. “Amber’s brother’s gonna see her get married here after all?”

“Of course,” the manager affirms. He reaches forward and pats Carl on the back of his hand. Carl wrinkles his nose, but apparently knows better than to dick punch the creep, which Mickey’s grateful for. 

“Such a brave, brave boy. We’d be honoured to do this for you.”

For 80 grand, Mickey wants to say, but doesn’t. He’s had to hold his tongue a lot today. He can’t say that he likes it much. If this is what mingling with the rich folk is like, then he’s pretty happy with his life as it is.

Still. It’s done. 

The manager shakes his hand when they part ways. His hands feel clammy, like he’s over-moisturised them, or like he has some kind of horrific sweat gland problem. Mickey hopes it’s just hand cream. 

“Please, give Ms Devereux our most sincere apologies for the mix-up,” the manager says as he leads them back down to the foyer, his face earnest. 

Mickey nods. “I’ll tell her to bring up her cancer-ridden kid brother next time she wants a contract honoured, sure thing.”

The manager doesn’t say anything to him after that. 

* * *

Ian’s already in bed by the time Mickey gets back, thanks to signal failures on the El. Mickey drops into bed alongside him, pulling off his shoes and socks and calling it a day. They’ve taken over Debbie’s old room, now that she’s claimed Fiona’s for her own, and the double bed they nabbed for twenty bucks at a house clearance doesn’t leave much room either side, but he likes it just fine. It’s pretty nice to have their own space, even if there’s not a lot of it.

“How’d it go?” asks Ian, turning over so he’s facing Mickey. It’s dark in the room, now that it’s winter and the sun stops giving half a fuck by 5 o’clock, but even in the low light, he can pick out Ian’s freckles. Stupid. He could probably draw them from memory at this point.

“We got the venue,” he says, and he can’t help the grin that spreads across his face at the thought of it. It worked. It fucking worked. “Amber’s gonna have to fork out an extra 5 grand, but they’re gonna give them four extra guest rooms and throw in a fucking harpist or some shit, I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. They got the venue.”

He scrubs both hands over his eyes, the tiredness only hitting him now that he’s supine.

“That’s great, Mick,” says Ian, and he sounds genuinely delighted. It makes Mickey’s stomach do a weird little leap. “How’d she take it?”

“I don’t know, man, she fuckin' cried when I told her. Seems pretty happy.” 

“I knew you could do it,” Ian tells him. 

Mickey huffs a laugh. “Glad you did, ‘cause I was shittin’ bricks.”

“Mick.” Ian shifts in the bed so that Mickey can half flop on top of him, head on Ian’s chest, and Ian puts an arm around his shoulder. “That’s like your thing, you know?”

“What, shittin’ bricks?”

Ian pinches Mickey’s shoulder. “Getting shit done.”

“Fuck off,” says Mickey. “You’re the fuckin’ overachiever, Mr EMT.”

“I mean it,” says Ian, rubbing small circles with his thumb on Mickey’s shoulder, beneath the cotton of his undershirt. “You have this—I don’t know, this way of just making shit work. You want something, and you get it. Like the whole world can just suck your dick if it tries to stop you. Like with our wedding. Everything that went wrong, you just handled it. It’s a good thing you didn’t give me more shit to do, because I would’ve just panicked. You got it done. Fuckin’ stuck it to Terry.” He pauses, and his hand stills. “It’s kinda hot, actually.”

Mickey feels himself flush, and curls his face into the curve of Ian’s neck to hide it.

“It wasn’t—” he starts, then stops. There’s not a world in which he can just say this shit. If there _is_ such a world, it can only be this one, which is frankly terrifying, and he wants no part of it at all, except for when he does. 

“Wasn’t what?” Ian’s voice is gentle, no trace of mockery or impatience in it at all. 

He moves his hand down to the small of Mickey’s spine, and Mickey wants to tell him. He does.

“Was gonna say something super gay,” he says, mumbling into the warm skin of Ian’s neck. 

Ian laughs, soft, and Mickey can feel the vibrations of it against his cheek. It’s probably his favourite thing ever. 

“Mick, you married me, a man, a couple weeks ago,” Ian says. “I sucked your dick this morning. We're literally spooning right now. Not sure it gets much gayer than that.”

Mickey’s silent for a few moments, thinking of how to say what he wants to say, how to articulate something so big that he could fill the whole room with words if he wanted to, and then he sighs.

“It wasn’t about Terry,” he says, at last. “I mean, it kinda was, because fuck him, and fuck not wanting me to be happy, but—”

“I get it,” says Ian, like he’s doing him a favour. “You don’t have to say it.”

“No, but I want to,” says Mickey. He closes his eyes, breathes in the scent of Ian, the musk of him. Steadies himself. “It was about me, and you. It was about getting the wedding that we fuckin’ deserved, man, because I love you. And how the first time I got married, I didn’t have a fuckin’ choice, it was just some shit that Terry threw together to hide the fact that he had a gay son, but this one was about us. About me, and the fact that I love you. Gettin' something I wanted at last. So sick of wanting shit and being too scared to get it, because then people would know that I wanted it. It was about having you and wanting everyone to know that I wanted you and I had you. About not bein’ ashamed of that any more. I _wanted_ that fancy-ass wedding, Ian. I really fuckin' wanted it.”

The room exists around them, for a moment, and nothing else. No world outside it.

“You know I knew that, right?” says Ian. “I knew it meant a lot to you. I wanted you to have all that, too. Might not have been your first wedding, but it was your real one. You deserved it to be perfect.”

“It was,” says Mickey, because he doesn’t even know how to begin to respond to the rest of it. 

“Yeah,” agrees Ian. “It really fuckin’ was. And you did that.”

He doesn’t say anything else, and Mickey risks pressing a tentative kiss to the warm hollow of Ian's jaw, feels him shudder underneath him. He's too wiped to do much of anything else, but he likes this. It's enough. 

“I love you,” says Mickey, through a yawn. “Real glad I married you.”

“I know,” says Ian, stroking the hair at the nape of Mickey's neck. It's oddly soothing. “Pretty glad I married you, too.” 

* * *

When the day of the wedding finally comes around, Mickey thinks he’s just about ready to lie down and get Ian to bury him alive. Dreams of Terry finding The Silver Obelisk and fucking razing it to the ground have haunted him for the past week, and last night he’d been thrown awake at 3 in the morning by the sound of gunfire outside. It hadn’t been aimed at him, in the end, but he’d ended up in the kitchen with Ian in the middle of the night anyway, huddled in a blanket and shaking on the couch while Ian made terrible pancakes and talked shit about Tami.

“We gotta get out of here, man,” Mickey says that morning, pulling on the pants of his rented suit and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “All this Terry shit, I ain’t sleepin’ at all.”

“I know, Mick,” says Ian. He’s still in bed, arms crossed behind his head, watching Mickey appraisingly. “Me neither.”

Downstairs, Mickey can faintly hear the sound of Debbie goading Franny into eating breakfast. He reaches for the shirt hanging up on the closet door.

“You gettin’ up any time soon, Gallagher?” he asks.

“Just enjoying the view,” Ian replies. 

Mickey pulls on the shirt, fiddles with the buttons. It’s not quite as sharp as his wedding suit, but he doesn’t look too much like pigshit, so he’ll take it. 

“You know,” says Ian, “if you change your name to Gallagher, you won’t be able to call me that any more.”

Mickey huffs something akin to a chuckle, and grabs the bow tie he’d set out last night. “Guess I’ll have to call you something else then, won’t I?”

Ian pulls back the blankets, still as naked as the day he was born, and takes the bow tie from Mickey’s hands. He’s suddenly very glad that their door is closed.

“Like what?” asks Ian, looping the bow tie around Mickey’s neck and starting to tie it.

“How about my dear fuckface?” suggests Mickey, and Ian cracks up. “My precious little douchebag. My darling asshole. My sweetest shitstain.”

“Just Ian would be fine, if you're taking suggestions,” says Ian. He finishes tying the bow tie, and rests the flat of his hand against Mickey’s throat, just beneath his jaw. When Mickey swallows, he can feel Ian’s hand pressing lightly there. It’s not helping his pants feel any better fitted.

“We’re gonna have a scheduling problem if you keep that up,” he says, trying to keep his tone light. 

Ian smirks, but moves his hand up to cup Mickey’s jaw instead.

“I’m proud of you, you know,” he says, and kisses Mickey again. 

It’s Mickey who pulls away first, against his better judgement, because he knows they’re running out of time. If he had his way, he’d stand here and play tonsil tennis with Ian Gallagher all day, but sadly that’s not what he’s being paid to do. More’s the fucking pity.

“Take your meds,” he says, ruffling Ian’s hair. “Don’t want you going all fuckin’ Gay Jesus on the rich folk.”

“You didn’t seem to mind bringing out Gay Jesus at the florist,” chides Ian, but he’s still smiling, so Mickey doesn’t think he’s actually giving him any shit. 

“Yeah, well, he has his uses,” he allows, and magnanimously lets Ian make himself useful for the next half hour, until they’re both staring wide-eyed at the clock and scrambling to get out the door in time.

* * *

The wedding goes perfectly, because of course it does. Mickey didn’t almost give himself a stress hernia for nothing. 

He meets Amber in person for the first time when she arrives at the venue in a fucking limousine owned by one of Mickey’s prison contacts. He’s pretty sure someone was murdered with a hatchet in that exact limo last year, but the upholstery looks clean enough, so he’s keeping schtum about it. Amber is almost exactly as he’d pictured her. She's taller than him, and he doesn't think he can blame it on the heels. She's elegant and blonde, with her hair piled in an unfathomable updo, wearing a fitted cream wedding dress embroidered with lace and champagne pearls. He’s uncomfortably aware that her entire outfit probably costs ten times more than his fee for planning this whole shit, but, he figures, the whole day is going to be full of shit that costs an ungodly amount, so he'd better suck it up. 

Amber spots him and Ian immediately, as he’s waiting outside the hotel to herd the guests into the right fucking place, because it turns out that rich people are fucking idiots who aren’t capable of following beautifully hand-calligraphed signage. When she lays eyes on him, she squeals delightedly, hitching up the front of her dress and running towards him, arms open, bouquet of pink hydrangeas in one hand. He lets her pull him into an awkward hug, careful not to let any of her makeup rub off onto his suit and fuck up his deposit. 

“My lifesaver!” she crows, and throws an arm around him. He suspects that she’s already partaken of some pre-marital prosecco, and wishes he could say the same for himself. “Benny told me I’d know you because you’d be the one with the tall ginger husband,” she says, and she beams up at Ian. “I presume that’s you, unless they’re running a sale on tall gingers and I missed out. I'll be livid if that's the case.”

“No, that’s me,” says Ian, and he leans in to let her air-kiss his cheeks. “Ian. Hi.”

“Hi, Ian,” she says, and giggles, turning her attention back to Mickey. “God, this is so surreal. I’ve literally cried down the phone to you, and this is the first time we’re meeting. You look exactly like I thought you would!”

“Huh,” he says, loquaciously, because he’s not sure what else to say to that. “You too.”

“Oh, that’s because I look like every rich white woman this side of the equator,” she says. “I’ve accepted it. Hey, I’ll see you in there, all right?”

“Sure thing,” he says, a little dazed, and she hugs him again, more tightly this time. 

“Thank you,” she whispers into his ear when she pulls away, and he's mortified to find that he’s turning red. 

“You’re literally fuckin’ paying me to do it,” he mumbles, and she winks at him, heads in to find the room he's booked for her to wait in before she walks down the aisle. 

The next four guests all mistake him for a waiter, but the pride in Ian’s voice every time he corrects them, tells them that Mickey’s the brains behind the operation, actually, makes it worthwhile.

* * *

Like clockwork, the guests all find their seats, a sea of taffeta and chiffon and shoes which cost more than Mickey’s fee—he knows this because one of the guests has left the price sticker on the bottom of her shoe, he suspects on purpose—and Amber walks down the aisle, and marries Benny. He’s somewhat surprised to see that he recognises Benny from his drug running days, back when Benny used to go by Karl, and he’s gratified to see that he seems to have turned over a new leaf. He’s a lanky fucker, all elbows, with a trim brown beard and hair that’s silvering at the temples, and when he sees Amber appear, his face splits into the widest, most open smile that Mickey’s seen in a long time. He wonders if that’s how he looked when he first saw Ian. He hopes it is. It’s how he felt. 

They say their vows surrounded by blushing pink hydrangeas and white lilies, and when Amber promises to have Benny for richer and for poorer, she seeks out Mickey and winks at him. He’s not sure if she’s making a tasteless joke about the fact that he’s dirt poor or slyly referring to the fact that she’s about to make him a fair amount richer, but decides not to care either way. When the bride and groom kiss, everyone dutifully claps, and when he sneaks a glance over his shoulder at Ian, he sees that his eyes are welling up. Sap.

They all mill about for an hour or so in the huge, high-ceilinged marble rooms of the hotel while Amber and Benny get their photos taken by the photographer cousin of a guy who owed Mickey for saving his ass in a barfight once. He ends up standing in the corner, nursing a _glass_ of watery beer, because he’s pretty sure he’ll get thrown out on his ear if he drinks it straight from the bottle. Ian has his hand tucked into Mickey’s back pocket and keeps being a complete asshole about it, squeezing Mickey’s ass in a way that he thinks is hilarious, but which makes Mickey jump every time. Whenever someone comes over, Ian’s hand stills, because he’s not that much of an asshole, and Mickey makes a mental note to show his appreciation later. A few guests approach him to congratulate him for how beautiful everything looks, for managing to save the venue when Amber had posted a weepy Facebook status about some evil bitch called Melissa, and he politely thanks them all, tries not to catch Ian’s eye, because he knows Ian will want to tell them about their own wedding and the fucking chairs, and then he'll have to order a hit on Ian, and he’s not sure he wants to do that. 

Preston has pulled out all the stops for the wedding breakfast, and King’s elaborate place settings are the talk of all the tables. He spies one old lady in a teal pantsuit slipping her place setting into her bra, and shudders. For his part, he scoffs down so much arancini that he can barely move, and even Ian partakes of a second helping of sea bass. 

He gets a mention in the best man speech, when Benny’s cousin, a guy who looks simultaneously 25 and 50, stands up and taps a knife on his champagne flute, stilling the whole room into quiet. 

“I’ve been told that I’m not actually the best man today,” he says, and Mickey has no idea what this guy’s name even is, but he has an incredibly punchable face. “Apparently, that accolade goes to Amber’s new best friend, one Mikhailo Milkovich, who—verbatim!—‘moved Heaven and Earth’ to pull all this together in just three weeks.” He raises his champagne flute and holds it up in Mickey’s direction, and Mickey wants to shove it through his ear and into his brain. “A toast, to the wedding planner extraordinaire. I hope she’s paying you well, my friend.”

“She is,” calls out Ian, to uproarious cheers, and Mickey resists the urge to stuff an arancini ball down his collar in retaliation. He does swipe the last bit of chocolate mousse from Ian’s bowl when he’s not looking, though.

* * *

The DJ, who Carl met at some fucking weird teenage Instagram party, plays the shitty music so loudly at the reception that Mickey can actually feel it building in his temples, and has to leave Ian for a minute. He pushes his way through a crowd that's throbbing like a cut vein, steps outside onto the balcony and lights up a cigarette that he has no intention of smoking.

Amber clears her throat behind him, and he whirls around like he’s been caught jerking off the priest.

“A little bird with red hair told me that you got your teenage brother-in-law to pretend to be a child cancer patient to secure the venue,” she says. 

He gulps. Shit. He'd hoped she wouldn't hear about that. “Oh. Uh, yeah. Sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?” she asks, frowning.

“I mean, your reputation, or whatever.” He stubs out his cigarette on the railing. It’s marble, because of fucking course it is. “Sorry if it comes back on you.”

She waves a hand nonchalantly. “Forget about my reputation, Mickey. It’s genius. Exactly the kind of thing that I would never have thought of doing. And you thought of it, and it worked. So, thank you. I mean it. You didn't have to do that.”

“S'what you paid me for.”

“I'm paying you to do your best,” she says, setting her champagne glass down on the ground next to the balcony door. Someone's definitely going to kick it over and smash it later. “Your best is incredible. Better than I could have hoped for. You've done so much, and I want to thank you.”

He has no idea what’s happening right now. “Thanks,” he settles for saying, even though she literally just thanked him, and she comes up to stand alongside him, looks out at the street opposite them. 

Almost on cue, he spies a couple down on the sidewalk below, two young women, making out in a deli doorway. He watches them for a moment, registering dimly that it's probably creepy, thinks how lucky they are, how he would never have had the courage at their age. Something about it makes him ache, and he turns away. When he looks at Amber, she’s looking at him, lips pressed together.

“$100,000,” she says. 

He stares at her. “What, are you just telling me how much your fuckin’ family earns in a minute, or—”

“Your fee,” she says. “As of right now, I’m paying you $100,000.”

His stomach clenches, and he almost chokes on his own saliva. “Fuck off,” he says. “No, you’re not.”

She sighs. “Look, Mickey. This isn’t—it’s not charity, or pity, or a bribe, or whatever else you think it is. It’s payment for a job well done. Think of it like a bonus. People in 9-5 jobs get those all the time.”

“Not $90,000, they don’t!” he hisses.

She turns around, leans backwards on her elbows against the railing. “Well, it’s money that I have to give, and I’m giving it. You can't tell me not to give it to you. It's my own money. That's feminism.”

Shit, he thinks, mind whirring. 100 grand is more than he’s ever had to his name. It's more than the sum total of all the money he’s _ever_ had to his name. He can’t just _take_ it. Can he? His whole life, he’s been making ends meet. Stealing shit to pay for other shit that he needs. Stacking nickels in shoeboxes to save up for food, checking the change basin of every single checkout machine for pennies. 

It’s small change to her, he knows, but it’s a whole lifetime for him. Money he’s never had, can’t even fathom having. He wouldn’t even know what to _do_ with it.

And then he thinks of Ian, who needs meds to keep himself _himself_ , meds that Mickey’s happy to steal for, but meds that Ian will still need even if Mickey gets himself caught and thrown in prison again. He thinks of $100,000, of putting it down on an apartment—fuck, why not a whole house?—and getting the fuck out of the Gallagher house. No more stepping in dirty diapers on the way to take his morning piss. No more being interrupted mid-fuck by the sound of Carl breaking shit with a makeshift slingshot. 

And he wants it. He wants it so bad that his teeth ache.

“I’m gonna get taxed right through the asshole on that,” he says, eventually. His voice cracks right at the end, but if she notices, she graciously doesn’t mention it.

“Sucks to be you. I’m not giving it to you in cash.” 

She bumps him companionably with her shoulder, and, not for the first time, he wonders if they might have actually ended up as friends had they been born into the same world. He suspects they might’ve, and it makes him a little sad, actually. 

“There’s something else, too,” she says.

She's more hesitant this time, and he doesn’t know what the fuck else there is to say after you’ve just given someone 100 grand, but he listens anyway.

“I know people,” she continues. “I'm sure you Googled me when I offered you the job, so you'll know that my family's in the diamond business.” Mickey hadn't known that, but he nods anyway. “It's not a bloodless industry. There are people I’m not supposed to know, but fuck it. I wasn’t supposed to marry a truck driver, and I did that anyway.” 

He knows that Benny was only a truck driver when the truck was full of meth, but doesn’t think it’s the right time to point that out.

“People like who?” he asks, cautiously. ‘People’ could mean anyone, after all. Could mean Brad Pitt. Could mean the Grand Wizard of the KKK. He’s almost afraid to ask. 

“People who could sort your father out for good, quicker than you can say my full married name.”

He frowns. “Like the mafia?” 

“Of a sort. Although officially, when they're in uniform, you’d call them 'officer',” she says. “If you catch my drift.”

He doesn't, at first. Until he does. And then it hits him. She’s offering him corruption, he realises. A bogus arrest, a body as yet unclaimed, lying in a morgue somewhere, just waiting to be dumped in a field and smeared with Terry’s fingerprints, conveniently discovered by a well-placed dogwalker. No alibi for Terry. A sure case in court. 

He’s heard of that shit going down before. One of the guys in prison had claimed it had happened to him. He’d pissed off some hotshot in the FBI, he said, found himself doing time for a murder he hadn’t committed a month later. No-one had believed him; everyone in prison was innocent if you asked them, after all. On the few occasions he'd let himself wonder if it might, in fact, be true, he'd thought about how cowardly it was. How tiny your balls had to be to force someone else to rot in prison with lies written all over their criminal record, just for pissing you off.

But now he wonders. 

She can make Terry disappear, which is pretty much all he wants in the whole world. A life with Ian, uninterrupted. Where they don’t have to constantly look over their shoulder, wondering who’s lurking in the shadows, waiting to slice their fucking kneecaps.

It would give them time. Time to do whatever the fuck they want to do. To walk to the corner shop holding hands and not have to lay out a contingency plan in case they get cornered by someone who’s been paid to bring back one of their fingers.

It sounds pretty nice, when he thinks about it. More than nice. It sounds like paradise, made real.

Maybe it's not always about picking sides. Maybe it's about viewing the whole world as one big, stupid fucking side, and making your own way through it.

He nods. “Do it,” he says.

And it's that easy.

She nods. “Least I can do,” she says. 

“You know, you’re pretty cool for a rich bitch,” he tells her, and she throws her head back and laughs. 

* * *

He wends his way through the pulsating crowd, who are all dancing to some song with a bassline that makes Mickey’s temple twitch, and he spots Ian in conversation with one of Benny’s brothers. Ian's holding a bottle of some fancy beer, and he looks so handsome in his dark blue suit that Mickey's almost angry about it, because what fucking business does he have looking like that when they're in too public a space to do anything about it?

When Ian spots him, his face visibly lights up and he excuses himself, comes over to Mickey and meets him halfway. Mickey greets him by grabbing him by the lapels and kissing him to within an inch of his life, right there on the dancefloor, the music filling his ears and his blood and making him feel suddenly twice as alive, still revelling in the knowledge that it’s done, that it’s over, that it’s just beginning. Ian’s mouth tastes like chocolate mousse. It’s not unpleasant.

When he pulls away, he strokes the cupid’s bow of Ian’s lip with his thumb, presses another, softer kiss there, just because he can, and he feels Ian smile into it.

“What was that for?” asks Ian, the reflection of the pink and white lights of the hall twinkling like the world’s gayest stars in his green eyes. 

“I’m just happy, is all,” says Mickey, and he is. 

* * *

Ian wakes him up the next morning by yelping right by his ear so loudly that he nearly shits himself. 

“What the fuck, Ian,” he hisses, rubbing his head where he’s bashed it against the headboard. 

“Don’t freak out,” says Ian, wide-eyed, shoving his phone under Mickey’s nose. 

“Little late for that,” mutters Mickey, but he takes the proffered phone, blinks blearily until his sleep-fogged eyes clear and he can see the screen properly. 

And then he drops it, because what the fuck. What the _fuck_. 

“I fuckin’ know,” says Ian, and he grabs Mickey’s face in both hands, presses a firm kiss to the tip of his nose. “You’re fuckin’ famous!” 

“What the fuck,” says Mickey again. “What the _fuck_.”

He can’t quite believe what he’s reading. Maybe he’s still asleep. But no; his head is still throbbing from the beating it just took against the bed. Definitely awake. 

Which begs the question: what the fuck is going on?

As he scrolls down the homepage, it makes less and less sense. ‘ _Amber_ _Devereux-Maguire got married today, and we’re all jealous!_ ’ screams the Buzzfeed article headline. ‘ _Wedding of the century_ ,' declares the Chicago Tribune. The Washington Post calls it ‘ _an event fit for the esteemed Devereux family, who made their fortunes in diamonds and keep it in the gossip headlines_.’

In hindsight, Mickey thinks, he should probably have Googled Amber.

And there, right on number 3 of the Buzzfeed listicle entitled _‘10 things about the Devereux wedding that made us cry,_ ’ he sees it. It’s a fucking photo of _him_ , Ian’s hand stuffed jauntily in Mickey’s back pocket, Mickey holding his stupid fucking glass of beer and laughing like an idiot at some dumb joke Ian’s making about the florist, and the caption says ‘ _Amber_ _’s friend and wedding planner Mickey organized the whole thing in 3 weeks, which makes us all want to quit our jobs and just give up right now_.’ 

And then it says his name. 

They’ve called him Mickey Milkovich-Gallagher, which he’s not mad about, honestly, but he knows exactly what this means. 

His name and picture are in the fucking news. He's just been described as having planned the fucking wedding of the century. He's never going to live this down.

He lurches over to his side of the bed, fumbles until he can grab his phone. He has dozens of missed calls, emails, texts. Most of them have a price in the title. ‘Urgent - $100,000!’ reads one. ‘Please read: $125,000’ promises another. 

Well, fuck. 

He turns to Ian and waves his phone at him. It immediately lights up with another call, and Ian gapes at it. 

“Guess I’m a wedding planner now,” says Mickey.

“Looks that way,” says Ian, and kisses him.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the Allen Saunders quote, 'Life is what happens to us while we are making other plans.'
> 
> I wrote this in two feverish days and I definitely need to make better life choices, like not editing at 4am. This is completely different to anything I've written before, and probably very different to anything I'll ever write again, but it was a hell of a lot of fun. Standard disclaimer: I'm the most British person to ever British, but I tried, goddamnit.
> 
> The word 'fuck' appears, in various iterations, 210 times throughout this fic, and I have some regrets about it, but not as many as I probably should.
> 
>  **Edit 13.07.2020** : just wanted to thank everyone for the ding dang great response that this fic had, really! I wrote it mostly to cheer myself up after A Bereavement and I'm glad it's resonated with others, too. I was pretty much aiming to write something that felt like an actual episode of Shameless but focused on the characters I give two shits about, and I'm really honestly so happy that other people like it. Hope everyone is staying safe and well in these unprecedented times—hard to imagine that I wrote this fic back when the world was still an actual world. I do still have plans for a sequel, so we shall see how it goes. Pip pip.


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